This Hurricane
by Cameron Kennedy
Summary: Three bullets. Two guns. One dead man, and one realization - "Nothing," Italy says coldly, with tears on his cheeks. "There is NOTHING I won't do to save Germany."
1. Do

**EDIT: If you want to read this fic in Russian, FFN user Cloud cake is in the process of translating it! Check my user profile for the link. **

XXX

**Summary:** Three bullets. Two guns. One dead man, and one realization - "Nothing," Italy says coldly, with tears on his cheeks. "There is NOTHING I won't do to save Germany."

**Less Eloquent Summary:** A story of how Italy goes more or less insane at the end of WWII because Germany is almost guaranteed to die. Established GerIta throughout.

**Words of Caution:** Contains Dark!Italy, the aftermath of WWII/the Holocaust, scenes of death/torture (later on), general yaoi/sexual themes, and varying degrees of language. _RATED M WITH GOOD REASON. _I had a friend read this fic before it was published, and it gave her nightmares where Italy was chasing her with a gun; cross my heart and hope to die, I'm not making that up.

**Disclaimed.** Hetalia is the property of Hidakez Himaruya and others.

Beta'd by **scrambled-eggs-at-midnight** and **midnight-elise**, with kudos going to **chibistar12**.

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><p>XXX<p>

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><p><strong>This Hurricane<strong>

_Do_

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><p>XXX<p>

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><p><strong>1950<strong>

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><p>For the hundredth time that year and the thousandth time since the war, Germany is screaming.<p>

"_NO! I'LL NEVER - NO!_"

"Germany! Germany!"

"_I WON'T!_" he shouts defiantly. "_NEVER!_"

"GERMANY!"

"_YOU CAN'T!_"

"Wake up! LUDWIG, _WAKE UP!_"

There is a sudden bellow, of grief and pain and a million horrible things that lie between the two. Then comes silence... Then choking. And, eventually, there is sobbing.

Germany can't tell if the tears are his own or Italy's; as they hold on for dear life at three in the morning, he drifts off into a quieter, pain-free, dreamless sleep with soft nothings in Italian echoing in his ear.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry."<p>

"Don't be," Italy replies, in a strangely serious tone. "I would be screaming, too, if I saw those things in my sleep."

Germany has a bite of his breakfast sausage. "That doesn't make me feel like any less of a weak failure."

The Italian says nothing to that because he doesn't think it's a topic worth discussing at mealtime, as Germany is well aware; instead he reaches for the orange juice and changes the subject to something less solemn. "Romano wants me to come visit him sometime this week."

"You should," his friend agrees. "You spend too much time with me."

Italy glances up at him over the rim of his cup. "It's my choice," he points out with a hint of dryness. "I wouldn't stay with you if I didn't like you so much." The German's lip twitches upward into a very subtle smile. Italy catches it and blushes a bit before adding more cheerfully, "Ve, but I suppose you're right. I haven't seen Romano for a very long time, and you probably want to do something on your own for a change - " he grins, " - isn't that right, Germany?"

He nods. "Ja, there are some things I've been meaning to get done without any distractions."

Italy grins even more. "And I'm distracting to you?" he asks teasingly.

"Extremely," Germany says.

Without skipping a beat, Italy leans across the table and wraps his arms around Germany's neck. "Good!" he exclaims.

Germany shakes his head. "You're the only person I know who would think being distracting is a positive trait."

"Because it is!" Italy insists as he presses their foreheads together. More quietly, he elaborates, "The more you're distracted, the less you think. And that's a very, _very_ good thing, if you don't think much."

With a pang, Germany realizes that Italy is completely right. When he thinks, he's always pulled into the past. The past is what makes him scream out in pain. It hurts too much.

Distractions. Italy. One and the same, he figures.

"...What kind of lives are we living?" he asks carefully. "We die every night in our dreams, then pretend nothing is wrong once our alarms go off."

Italy looks at him with those dark amber eyes. "We're living," he says softly, "and isn't that what counts?"

* * *

><p>"Goodbye, Germany!" Italy waves at him as he walks down the front steps. "I'll be back tomorrow!"<p>

"Don't call me about tying your shoelaces!" Germany calls from the doorway, only half-way in jest.

Italy winks and blows him a kiss. Germany shakes his head and is unable to keep a corner of his mouth from rising in a smile.

Too cute.

As Italy steps into a cab and disappears from sight, the German decides that it's time to accomplish something useful - he's been meaning to clean out the drawers in their house for a very long time...

Two hours later, he's almost done: all six in the kitchen, the cabinets in the bathroom, his desk, his clothes chest, and the closet drawers have been organized. He feels extremely accomplished - a misplaced book (an antique copy of _Le Morte d'Arthur_) and some previously lost items of personal interest make it well worth the work. Now all that's left to clean is Italy's small personal desk. Germany doubts his friend will mind; the Italian almost never looks in this desk, anyway, so there shouldn't be any reason he would care.

Germany gets through the first drawer, rearranging everything with immaculate precision. Then down to the second drawer. The third. He gets to the fourth drawer and pulls it open without hesitation or any idea what he's about to see.

Germany's heart stops when he realizes what he's staring at.

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><p>"...Allemagne?"<p>

Germany is acutely aware that France is giving him an incredulous stare, like he's grown another head. It looks and feels strange, probably to the both of them - five years ago, had they met face to face, they would have tried to kill each other. "Look," he says somewhat crossly, "I know we were enemies in the past and that you have no reason to like me after - "

"Oh, non! Non, it's not that I hold anything against you!" France exclaims in a voice that makes him seem oddly honest. "It's only that... I don't understand what you're doing here."

Awkwardly shifting on France's doorstep, Germany clears his throat and says, "Well, you see... it's Italy."

"Italy?" France looks mildly alarmed. "Is he well? Did something - "

"Italy himself," Germany quickly interrupts, "is fine. It's just... something important has come up, and I don't quite know who to - " he pauses before he decides on the word, " - _consult_. I would ask Prussia, but under the circumstances, we can't really - "

"Allemagne." France interrupts him quietly. "I know."

For a moment, there is complete silence.

Germany tosses France a dish-towel, with something concealed inside. France unwraps it carefully and almost drops the makeshift package with alarm.

"I found them in Italy's drawer," Germany says softly.

As his initial expression fades, France stares at the two pistols he's holding with an extremely blank face. "Why me?"

"Because there's nobody else, and your house is the closest anyways," he answers simply. "Can you tell me why Italy has them?"

"In good time," France says curtly. He examines them carefully, from all angles. "A Beretta M1935," he whispers, "and a Walther PP... Tell me, Germany - do you know where these weapons came from originally?"

"Well..." He pauses before he gives a full answer. "The Beretta was probably Italy's personally, during the most recent war, and to an extent I can understand why he kept it... But the Walther belonged to my brother. I know because he always personalized his weapons with his eagle insignia."

France examines the mark Germany is referring to - a black Prussian eagle. "That is true."

"Why does he have it?" Germany demands.

"Why are you asking me?" France demands back.

"Because you're the closest, like I said, and because you know the both of them," he answers simply. "You knew Italy long before I did, and you were one of Prussia's best friends before - " _Before Russia took him_, he almost says. There's an inconvenient lump in his throat, however, that he suddenly can't swallow away, so he never finishes and lets France figure on his own what he wants to express.

France looks at the guns. Then at Germany. Then out onto the quiet road stretching in front of the house.

"...These are not matters to be discussed outside," he says solemnly. "Please, Allemagne, come inside if you wish to hear." Germany begins to step in, but then France whirls back on him. "You're sure? If you want the background to the story, then I must warn you: you won't like it."

Germany exhales. "...Yes."

* * *

><p>Before they talk, there must be wine present; Germany accepts the other nation's glass, because France would never let him live it down if he didn't. As soon as he pours for Germany, France asks:<p>

"Germany, how many people have you killed?"

Germany barely manages to swallow his sip of Chardonnay before he coughs out, "_Excuse_ me?"

France waves his hand and leans back in a chair opposite of Germany. "You are a young nation; it's rather unlikely I would be offended or disturbed by your answer. But really, how many people have you killed in wars, with your own hand?"

With his own hand? He sinks back in relief and responds, "Not many. Less than a hundred, and all as a soldier."

"A few score? I thought so." France sits on the edge of his sofa. "Now, how many have you _murdered_?"

"..._Murdered_?" The word falls off his tongue, cold and harsh like the act that it is.

"Murdered," France repeats with a nod. "How many men have you gazed in the face while you pulled the trigger? How many opponents have you destroyed in a moment of passion? _How many times_ - " he emphasizes, " - have you seen the fear in the eyes of your adversary before you extinguish the light?"

Germany's mouth is dry. "...None."

"I'm not surprised." France sighs and stares at his empty glass. "War was different in the old days. Now, you just flip a switch, hit a button, or pull a trigger, and it does the job for you. You _kill_, nowadays. But back then, when you fought on a battlefield with swords and daggers, you had no choice but to _murder_ or _be murdered_."

Germany closes his eyes and tries to imagine the sight. Scenes from his nightmares are what he sees; he snaps his eyes back open. "But what does this have to do with Italy? What about Prussia's gun?"

France just shakes his head. "Prussia's gun is immaterial at the moment; you're getting ahead of the storyteller." He pours himself another glass and sips it before continuing, "Italy, when it comes to death, is a special case compared to the rest of us nations. He has never actively fought on the front-lines of war, and so I can tell you with certainty that he has never killed a man in his life."

Germany, for some reason, feels a weight lifted from him when he hears that. "Thank God."

"He's never _killed_," France repeats. "But I know for a fact... he has _murdered_."

...What?

"Not possible," Germany whispers.

"Very possible," France corrects with another whisper. "Very, very possible."

"He couldn't!"

"He can. He did."

"He doesn't have the heart! The knowledge!"

France laughs sourly. "The heart? The _knowledge_? Are you mad? We're discussing the blood grandson of the greatest empire the world has seen - the prime example of a nation who lived to torture and kill! Pardon me, a nation who lived to _murder_! I'll be damned if he doesn't know a thousand ways to make a human suffer and another thousand ways to destroy a man inside out!"

He can't breathe. The sudden knowledge that Italy, sweet Italy, who shared his bed and kissed away his tears, could be a _murderer!_ - it's too much.

"...How many people?" he asks, feeling helpless.

"I have an educated guess," France admits. "How many bullets are in your brother's gun?"

Feeling sick to his stomach, Germany reaches for it and opens the cartridge. "...Five," he breathes.

"Six minus one?" France thinks this over and nods to himself. "Yes... that's what I thought. He's murdered one man, then."

Germany buries his head in his hands. After a moment, he hears rustling and feels France sitting next to him on the couch.

"He's murdered," Germany moans. "He's _murdered_."

"Calm yourself, Allemagne," France says soothingly. "There is scarcely a nation to have walked on this earth who has not murdered before - Italy is still one of the kindest and least tainted among our kind. One man! I had not even lived for a century before I'd murdered ten!"

"But why?" Germany sobs. "_Why?_"

"...Why?"

"_Why!_"

"Because... He killed to save."

Germany lets out a choked laugh. "Killing to save! I don't suppose he was crying when he did it!"

"You don't believe me. You've never seen him angry, then; when he becomes truly enraged, when your life is truly threatened, he turns into a completely different - "

"_My life?_" Germany's head snaps up. "_MY life?_"

France purses his lips, as though he realizes he's said something that should not have been revealed. He quickly backtracks and says, "The only times I've ever, _ever_ seen him murderous were when someone he loved very, very dearly was near death."

"Plural," the German states suddenly.

France raises an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"The only _times_," Germany says. "You mean to say it's happened more than once?"

"Only twice," France replies dryly, "that I'm aware of."

"That you - !" Germany gives France an incredulous look.

"Oh, I'm quite sure those were the only two times," France says with certainty. "He never did kill me, obviously, but good portion of his anger was taken out on me..."

"Taken out on you... _how_?"

For a moment, there is silence. Then: "I still have scars that can be seen if you look closely. Would you like to...?"

Germany nods sorely, feeling that he will regret this choice in a moment. France takes a moment with his shirt buttons before facing Germany and pointing at his chest. "You see the lines?"

He sees alright.

They stretch from the center of his upper ribcage - almost to his throat - down far enough that they almost extend beyond the Frenchman's waistband. They extend horizontally across the entire span of his chest. And in the very center -

"He used a rapier," France whispers. "He pinned me down, and he cut me open so that the entire floor was soaked with red. And as his final ministration, he shoved it in right here - " he points to the gaping scar in the center, " - and _twisted_."

It's too much. All Germany can see now is France lying helpless on the ground and Italy standing over him with his eyes reflecting the red pool on the floor and lips curled in a sadistic smile and holding the sword in position ready to -

"He cried."

Germany forces his head up from between his knees.

"He did," France says again. "He was sobbing the whole time. And I felt horrible - not because of what he was doing to me, but because of what I'd done to him."

Pursing his lips, Germany wipes away a stray tear on his cheek. France doesn't seem at all surprised that he's crying - maybe Italy told him about the nightmares he has every time he closes his eyes, or maybe France had been expecting the German nation to be broken anyway. It doesn't matter.

"What did you do to him?"

France doesn't answer at first. He fiddles with his buttons again and finally says, "I was responsible for the... passing, let's say... of someone very, very loved by him." France gives a humorless laugh and adds, "I don't know what I was thinking. I set out to conquer Europe with Napoleon, and it didn't even_ occur _to me that we would have to become murderers to get there... Even these days, more than a century later, I still see Italy's face when I told him. It haunts me."

"You deserved it?" Germany surprises himself by asking.

Also to his surprise is France's answer. "I did. I completely deserved it, and now I have the scars to prove my stupidity."

He feels angry with himself - how could he have not known about this? Italy, _his_ Italy, hurting so badly... "Why didn't he ever tell me?" he moans to himself.

"Because he didn't want you to know," France answers simply. "He doesn't want you to believe he's capable of it - not because he doesn't trust you, oh non non non. Italy has never been one to let his emotions control him so rashly, so he tries to ignore that the slip-ups have ever happened; that can explain why he never told you of these." He points at the guns with a limp hand before continuing with his clothes.

Suddenly, Germany realizes something. "You said it happened twice. Is that when he used the...?"

"It did happen twice. The second time involves the two guns you brought here today." France finishes rebuttoning his shirt and abruptly asks, "Well, are you satisfied?"

That's all? France will tell him no more? "Satisfied? _Satisfied!_ Of course not!" Germany says with a sudden shout. "You told me a lot about things that don't matter to me - I still don't know what Italy has to do with Prussia's gun!"

France's eyes darken. "Maybe you think it doesn't matter, but if you even want to understand him - non, if you even want to _love_ him the way he loves you, then you need to realize that his past does matter. There are a good many - how to put it? - a good many ordeals he's gone through in the past few years alone which he has never told you of. I've given you a basic understanding, but I don't believe it is my duty to tell you of the details."

"I need to know," Germany states coldly.

"I agree," France says back just as coldly. "But hearing it from me isn't going to prove anything - if you're going to hear the rest of his past, you need to have him tell you."

"How do you know?"

"Because!" France insists. "Because _he_ came after me when he was angry. He didn't send a mercenary to torture me; he didn't stand on the sidelines and send someone else to do his dirty work. He came after me personally, so I could see the hurt in his soul - and if I tell you the story for him, it would be doing him a great injustice."

Germany says nothing.

"He loves you."

Germany still says nothing.

"I told you - he murdered. And I promise you, Allemagne," France says, looking him straight in the eyes, "if you think that there is nothing in this world that could enrage him enough to do so, you're wrong."

...

"Who was the victim?" Germany asks softly, resigning himself to the fact that France is probably correct.

"Define 'victim'," France deadpans. "You were a victim; so was Italy."

"Then tell me one thing, and I'll leave and never ask about it again." Germany stands up, hanging his head. "Do you think the... the murdered man deserved it?"

France leans back.

"Do I?"

"Do you?"

The Frenchman grasps his wine glass so tightly it cracks.

"Oh... _yes_. Yes, he did," France says maliciously. "That _fucker_."

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><p>XXX<p>

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><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

The Beretta M1935 was a gun commonly used by Italians during World War II; same goes for Germans using the Walther PP during that time. The rapier came from, arguably, either Spain or from the nobility in Italy, and it was most popular in the 16th and 17th centuries - as far as I've been able to tell, it's one of the very last major sword-types to be used for purposes other than decoration and discerning social status.

It's assumed that, in canon, since Prussia no longer has his own country after WWII, he represents East Germany; hence, Russia's taken him in the name of communism by this point in time. (This is pretty common knowledge in the fandom, but I wanted to clarify just in case.)

And in case it wasn't obvious, the first time Italy went crazy on France was because he (or maybe his leader Napoleon) was responsible for the end of the Holy Roman Empire in 1805. There's a strip Himaruya deleted where France tells Italy of the incident personally, but you don't see any reaction because that part of the comic has been lost completely. (As a side-note, I wrote a completely different interpretation of that strip a while ago, for those interested.)

**Additional Author's Notes**

This was written back in August sometime, and last night I figured it was about time to grow a pair and post this chapter. Reviews are always appreciated.


	2. you

XXX

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><p><strong>This Hurricane <strong>

_Do you _

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><p>XXX<p>

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><p><strong>October 1943<strong>

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><p>"It's no use, Veneziano - you can bitch and cry and scream all the fuck you want, but <em>you can't stay with the Potato Bastard anymore<em>!"

Italy clutches the phone in his hand so tightly his knuckles turn white. "_No_, Romano! I'm not listening to you!"

"Fuck that! You're ignoring all the facts!" his brother screams through the receiver. "First Mussolini gets his ass kicked out of office, and you refuse to leave him! Then we sign a fucking armistice with the Allies, and you _still_ refuse to leave him! _Your_ half of the people are fighting the government I'm backing, and I'm warning you right now - shit is going to hit the fan by _tonight_ where you are! _Get the fuck out of there for your own sake!_"

"_Would you leave Spain?_" Italy cries back. "I can't leave Germany! He's my friend! He's stuck with me, and I'm sticking with him!"

"You have to! _Veneziano_, God _damn_ it, _listen to me_!"

"NO!" he sobs as he grips the phone even tighter. "Romano, _you_ listen to _me_! There is nothing you can say to make me leave!"

"...Veneziano. _Please_, listen!" Romano's voice is lower, shaking. Now he's really upset; Italy can tell because he's speaking much too softly. And the word "please" - he's never heard Romano say please for _anything._ "I can't tell you why, but _please_ - " There it was, again, " - _please get out now!_"

Italy pauses. "Not without," he says shakily, "a _reason_."

"_Fuck_!" Somewhere in the background, Romano is kicking something. "It's - fuck! - _shit!_" He screams to himself for a minute more, and Italy almost hangs up, but then his brother's sharp Italian voice comes back loud and clear. "You want a _reason_?"

"_SI!_" Italy almost yells with frustration.

"Well, here's your God damned reason: Victor Fucking Emmanuel and Badoglio just signed a _declaration of war!_"

For a moment, Italy can't breathe.

"Romano... that's _wonderful!_" he almost shouts for joy. "Ve! Now I have _justified_ reasoning to stay here with Germany, si? And now I don't - "

"NO! - Veneziano, you _fucktard_! - "

" - I don't have to hear about the government opposing Germany anymore, and - "

"_WE JUST DECLARED WAR ON GERMANY!_"

...

And all at once, his world is shattered.

"W-wh-_what_?" he whispers in horror.

"Finally, I have your _fucking attention!_" Romano breathes. It's an empty sort of exclamation of joy, and he continues, "You have to get the hell out of German territory, or _your ass is theirs_!"

He can't breathe - he's forgotten how. "No."

"_Veneziano_! You have to!"

"No," he repeats numbly. "No, no, no, no, no, no, _no_!"

"_They will kill you!_ You've been of no use to them for months, and now you've as good as betrayed them even without your fucking signature on the papers!"

Italy says nothing. Why can't he breathe - !

"They'll kill you," Romano repeats. "God knows, our government is so weak right now that they'd have no trouble succeeding if they tried."

"...Romano..." Italy says with a choke.

"Veneziano - ?"

"I love him," he manages. "I _love_ him. And he loves me."

"Oh no you _don't_!" Romano yells. "Don't you _dare_ try to pull any of that sappy shit on me - "

There are tears on Italy's cheeks.

"Goodbye," he whispers.

"_NO!_ VENEZIANO, YOU _MOTHER FUCKING_ - "

He hangs up without another word and bursts into sobs.

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><p>"G-Ger-Germany?" Italy asks with a hesitant knock on the office door.<p>

"Enter."

Italy dries his eyes again and turns the knob. "Ve, I-I'm sorry I'm late, but I just had a rough phone call from Romano and - "

He freezes when he sees Germany standing at his spotless desk with cold eyes.

"Ve?" he exclaims, like a question. "What is it?"

"You're leaving," Germany states.

Italy's jaw drops. "No! I would never! Romano tried convincing me to go, but it didn't work because I'm - "

"Get out."

He can't breathe.

"_Get out_," Germany hisses again.

Several moments are wasted on Italy's behalf, as he stutters hopelessly before finally managing, "_I'm not leaving!_"

"You are," Germany repeats, still as coldly as before. In a brief moment, Italy notices that Germany's phone is off its hook, and with a horrified gasp he realized that Germany had been listening silently to Romano's insistence and his own pleas. "I listened to the same conversation you did," the German confirms, "and _I've_ decided that you're going now."

_He can't breathe!_ The world is spinning, and he's going to collapse if he can't remember how to inhale soon -

"Why?" he sobs, beginning to cry again. "_Why?_"

"I have no place here for traitors. _Especially_," he adds with venom, "when I gave you a second chance."

Twice now - he remembers. First during the Great War, when he broke a treaty before he'd even _met_ Germany, and now, when he has no way of protesting his innocence. "I would n-never!" he cries. "It w-was never my choice!"

"Maybe not," Germany allows. "But you're still the enemy."

Italy falls on the floor, his palms burning against the wood.

"Your brother is right," he continues. "You need to go before tonight."

"_And what if I don't l-leave?_" Italy chokes out.

Germany only blinks. "You die."

He screams and presses his forehead to the floor as his body becomes racked with his sobs. "_You wouldn't stop them?_"

He never could have anticipated the German's answer. "I would _welcome_ them."

Italy absorbs it. He gives a heaving sigh and forces himself to stop convulsing, although he still cries; he stands up.

"I have already made arrangements for your travel," Germany continues without flinching. "A single soldier will escort you to the border our territories share. There's nothing else I will do for you." Their gazes meet. "He's ready; he's waiting for you outside the door."

Italy's lips waver, and more tears slide down his cheeks.

"..._Ti amo_," he whispers.

Germany doesn't react. "Goodbye, Italien."

* * *

><p>The supply train takes them a large portion of the way.<p>

"We have to be subtle about the way we're travelling, see?" the soldier says with a small grin. "It's one thing to get you there the easy way, and it's another thing to get you there the _safe_ way, ja?"

Italy only curls his mouth up briefly before it falls back into a straight line.

"It's something we were taught in training," he continues, "and hell, in training it was harder than it is now. Then, the drill guys would go out of the way to look for you, and if you were caught then you'd fail. But see, the way it is now, nobody bothers to check these cars anyway, and if they see you they look at your uniform and realize we're all fighting for the same team - so they don't do anything! It's messed up, ja?"

Italy nods.

It could be worse. The soldier at least seems to care about Italy's well-being, and he's more enjoyable than many of the other German soldiers Italy has met. Maybe it's because he's stopped crying; his eyes literally ran out of tears to shed. He wraps himself a little tighter in his coat, the wind rushing through the open door of the rail-car, and wishes to himself that removing the chill in his soul were so easy.

"I wonder if it'll storm," the soldier says absently. "I know it rained earlier, but sometimes the weather around here takes a while to get around to giving us the _real_ shit, with lightning and - hey, I just realized. What's your name?"

"...My name?" Italy quietly repeats. "...Vargas."

"Vargas." The soldier thinks that over for a moment before frowning. "So you are foreign. Your German's good enough you had me wondering for a while."

Italy just nods again, thankful that the soldier is also a good distraction. "Yours?"

"Schnabel."

After blinking, Italy asks more boldly, "How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

Too young. Much, much too young. "Drafted?" he guesses.

"Yeah," he shrugs. "My vati was in the army for a long time, but I was never interested. At least I got stuck in an interesting position, near all the people making decisions."

A vague opportunity makes itself known; Italy blinks at the signposts flying by and wonders if anything is possible. "Really. How much influence do you actually have, then?"

The soldier laughs. "Hell, hardly any! I bet I could get myself transferred freely if I asked the right people, but other than that - "

"How much do you know about Ludwig Beilschmidt?"

"...Pardon?"

"_How much_," Italy repeats, his eyes watering again at the thought of Germany, "_do you know about Ludwig Beilschmidt?_"

Schnabel blinks. "Nothing at all... but I could find stuff out." His eyes narrow. "Why, do you want me to become a spy for you or something? Are you trying to undermine the Führer or the government?"

"Absolutely not!" Italy grabs desperately for Schnabel's coat and forces the German to look in his eyes. "This goes far, far beyond your Führer," he whispers shakily. "If Hitler dies, Germany can still exist. If politicians are killed, Germany can still exist. But I _guarantee_ you personally - if anything happens to Beilschmidt, it's all over."

"...Who the fuck _are_ you?"

Italy doesn't answer.

"So what does this have to do with me?" Schnabel demands. "Are you just trying to scare me?"

"No. If anything happens to him, can you get word to me?"

"Well, you're crossing the border, so it'd be pretty fucking hard..." He thinks before allowing, "It depends. How powerful are you in your army?"

"I'm..." Italy pauses before deciding a title is probably leverage enough. "I'm honorary Commander-In-Chief of Italy."

"HOLY SHIT!" Schnabel abruptly backs away, across the inside of the storage car. Slowly he bites his lip and asks, "What was your name again?"

"Feliciano Vargas."

"How do I know you're not making this up?"

"Would you be sneaking a normal Italian citizen out of your territory?"

Schnabel frowns deeper. "You have a point."

"But listen - " Italy turns to face the soldier again, " - I _have_ to know if I can trust you."

A shrug. "I already know," Schnabel responds, "that our governments are at war - oh, _jeez_, don't look surprised. News travels too fast to stop when it comes to that sort of thing. But since we're at war, I should shoot you."

"...But you haven't."

"Exactly. I could shoot you, and my superiors would never know, but I haven't."

Italy tilts his head. "Ve, why not?"

"You're weirdly..." he pauses before he finishes, "...likable. I trust _you_, and I think the fact that I haven't killed you yet should count for something. So - if I can get you word of Beilschmidt, what's in it for me?"

After thinking a moment, Italy responds, "I'll give you protection."

Schnabel snorts. "I don't need protection."

"You will if something happens to Beilschmidt," he points out. "And if nothing happens to him, you have no reason to see me again anyway."

It's hard. He feels a pang in his stomach and a twitching in his palms from hitting the hardwood floor every time Germany's name comes up; it hurts. It hurts so bad. That's why he's making a pact in a freight car with a man he's known for only hours - it's false security to make him feel better.

"...Tell me, oh Honorary Commander-In-Chief of Italy," Schnabel suddenly asks, "what are the odds of Germany losing the war?"

Italy grimaces and clenches his eyes shut for a moment. "Ve... I don't know, but winning isn't something I'd bet on any longer."

The soldier solemnly nods.

Eventually, after several hours on the train, Schnabel gets Italy across the border-line by sneaking him down a creek in the center of the country. He promises to let Italy know if anything happens. "Somehow, I'll get word to you," he says. "You're a nice kid. A powerful kid, granted, but you're nice and don't deserve a shitty war like this." They exchange other words of goodbye, and somewhere in the distance, Italy hears thunder and gunfire.

* * *

><p>Romano cries.<p>

"YOU FUCKING IDIOT!" he screams when they're reunited some odd hours later. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!"

"N-no," Italy states, tears falling again.

"W-well, I'm glad you got some fucking _common sense_ before it got to be _too fucking late_!" Romano yells as he wipes his eyes and hugs his brother.

Italy's breath hitches. "I-I didn't. I was forced to l-le-leave, because now, Ger-Germany _hates_ me."

Romano's grip stiffens. "Wh... _what?_"

"He m-made me leave!" Italy wails. "H-he said I would die if I di-didn't leave, a-and he hates me s-so much h-he said he w-wouldn't save m-me if I stayed!"

Softly, Romano's arms go limp and fall to his sides. "Feliciano..." he whispers.

Uh oh; Romano used his _human name_. "S-si?"

"If Germany _really_ hated you," he says, still whispering, "if he _actually_ didn't give a shit... he wouldn't have gotten you out."

Italy blinks. For the first time in more than 24 hours, he breathes - but it's hyperventilation.

"No, he! - _NO!_" Italy cries. "_Germany!_ - He _lied_ to me! He lied so I would think he hated me and go and - _and I went! I abandoned him!_" He screams and buries his head in Romano's chest.

"...God-_fucking-damn_ it," Romano curses quietly, with something in his throat. "That bastard really does love you."

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes <strong>

On October 13, 1943, the official Italian government (which had been neutral for a couple of months) declared war on the Axis and announced they'd become a part of the Allies. In Hetalia terms, this is extremely confusing to illustrate because the Allies didn't even have control over Rome at this time and the whole northern half of Italy was still considered Axis territory. Mussolini, the dictator who had been kicked out by this point, actually escaped to the northern part of the country and reestablished a fascist government there, but since it wasn't considered "official" by anyone, it's kind of hard to determine where Veneziano's allegiance would actually lie. So, for the sake of simplicity and plot, he's going to (or more accurately, he's being forced to) side with Romano and the Allies.

**Additional Author's Notes**

For the literary nerds out there, this fic follows a "framed" format, meaning that you sort of know how the plot wraps up at the very beginning - but you have to read the whole thing to know exactly what's going on. And for the really _big_ literary nerds out there, you can find a significant amount of subliminal symbolic context in this story if you know what to look for... but I won't say exactly what sorts of symbols I'm talking about, because that would defeat the purpose.

That being said, this is hopefully a story enjoyable for plot as well, in case nobody's interested in the alternate perspective. (Wow, I'm teaching people stuff from my AP Literature class through fanfiction. Where has my life gone?) As a different side note: you guys really make it a pleasure to write angsty stuff. I don't think I've _ever_ gotten so many encouraging reviews on the first chapter of anything in such a short amount of time. Perhaps I need to raise my expectations...


	3. really

XXX

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane<strong>

_Do you really_

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>April 1945<strong>

* * *

><p>The Italians and the Allies might be winning the war, but Italia Veneziano is fighting a losing battle.<p>

"For _fuck's sake_!" Romano groans as he rolls over sometime early in the morning. Unmatched by his tone is the kinder gesture of cradling his younger brother's face to his chest. "Veneziano, you _have_ to get a fucking grip!"

"I c-can't!" Italy sobs back in a whisper. "_I can't!_" He's telling the truth; every night he dreams of death, of seeing Germany lying on the field of battle and of himself unable to save his only real friend in the world. It's been that way for more than a year now, and he doubts this will stop anytime soon.

He holds on for dear life for an unknown length of time before finally falling asleep, with Romano grasping his shaking hands so tightly it actually dulls the pain; even so, horrific and hazy visions of a nation he once knew still linger in his mind.

* * *

><p>It's almost by complete accident that he hears of a German soldier being captured.<p>

"...What?" Romano asks with a frown, a piece of a bread-stick halfway to his mouth. He lowers his food and repeats, "I tell you, there must have been a really shitty leak of info somewhere, because one POW we got the other day knows who we are."

"A POW?"

"Yeah, a fucking _German_, too."

"A _German_ one?" Italy exclaims as he drops his spoon. "What was his name?"

"Hell if I remember. But he told a crazy story about helping some honorary commander something-something named Vargas." Romano frowns. "Some weird-ass thing like that. I wasn't paying much attention when the general told it to me - "

Italy stands up and prepares himself to abandon the meal. "I have to leave," he says in a rush.

"What the fuck - GET BACK HERE!"

He's already running.

* * *

><p>A German soldier who helped a Vargas.<p>

"Hey kid," Schnabel says a bit weakly, albeit with a grin. Italy had, like Romano had said, found him as a POW in one of the army camps. Not forgetting what he'd promised, he pulls a few strings and gets the German released - now they're sitting in a hotel room in Rome. The city may be battered, but overall it seems to have escaped the worst of the war; both Italy and Romano feel rather fortunate for that much, at least.

"How's the war?" Italy asks hesitantly.

"Dead." His voice sounds dead, too. "Things have gone down the drain, and not just near the front lines - it's gone to hell everywhere. My home village got shelled, and everyone I knew - " The young man stops and has to cover his mouth for a moment before continuing with his old train of thought. "Fuck, it's all gone to hell. I say Germany's about to surrender, and as much as everyone else denies it I _know_ that I'm not the only one who thinks so."

Italy whispers, "I'm sorry." And he is. He knows far too well how close war hits home and destroys everything that can be held dear - even now, as much as he dislikes his enemies, he never wishes them anything like this.

"Your sympathy is appreciated - but I know you don't want to hear about me. You want the dirt on that officer."

"What happened?" Italy asks, afraid of the answer he might get.

Schnabel closes his eyes. "Shit happened. I went back after I left you, and everything was fine. I kept an eye on Beilschmidt just like you asked, and nothing happened for a while. Then, one day in... maybe it was late November? Sometime near the end of '43. One day, he disappeared."

Italy's hands are shaking, and the anticipation burns his palms. "H-he _disappeared?_"

"He got deported," the soldier specifies. "I didn't know if I should've run and told you right away, but getting 'deported' means practically nothing anymore in high circles - it could've meant he'd been shot or hanged or sent to work himself to death. There wasn't any way of knowing."

His whole body is shaking now. "_No!_"

"But I found him," Schnabel finally states. "I did a lot of digging around, and a couple months ago I found the records of him. Then I got myself switched to the Italian front of the war to find you, and the rest is history."

"_But where is he? Schnabel, I need to know - where is he?_" Italy pleads.

The German purses his lips. "Poland."

All at once, the shaking stops as Italy becomes very confused. "Ve? He's... in_ Poland_?"

Schnabel hangs his head low. "Got deported to a camp. Specifically, to Auschwitz." He wipes an eye. "I'm so, _so_ sorry."

Italy blinks.

"...What's Auschwitz?"

* * *

><p>When the premise of such a death camp is explained to him later by an informed Italian soldier on the flight into Krakow, Italy cries so violently he vomits.<p>

"_Germany!_" he screams and gasps and prays. "_NO!_ _GERMANY!_"

* * *

><p>Auschwitz had been liberated a little more than two months before by the Soviet army, and the survivors are housed in a previously abandoned building in the city of Krakow. So many of them had been near death and with nowhere to go that the entire place had been more or less converted into a combined hospital and boarding house.<p>

So few are there - hundreds. The men who usher Italy inside say that there had been _millions_. If Germany had been a human, if he'd been one of the earlier to arrive, if the continued existence of his own people and government and land couldn't account for and contribute to his survival, if, if, if! The odds would be horrible. They still are, Italy is forced to remind himself.

Upon entering the first room of the complex, Italy begins to rapidly fire questions in every language he can think of to anyone who will listen. _Do you know of a Ludwig Beilschmidt? Is there a German here?_ and even _Have you seen a blonde man? _The very large majority of the people he sees have dark eyes and dark hair, so very unlike the figure he's desperately searching for. They're all so thin, too, even after a few months of freedom and plenty of food - their bodies could be snapped in half, their bones counted at a glance, their eyes plucked out of their sockets.

It's horrible. He doesn't know if Germany looks like this, but he hopes and prays that this isn't the case.

He runs. In all the rooms he enters, the dark-haired people stare at him or shake their heads or begin crying to themselves for reasons he doesn't stay to learn - as soon as he is sure Germany is not there, he bolts for another room to continue his search. He goes through the first floor. The second. The hospital.

"_Can anybody help me?_" he sobs to himself. Still seeing only unfamiliar faces, all black and blue and just as broken as he is, he turns to leave the sick ward.

And miraculously, _someone hears_. "...It's _you_! _Feliciano!_"

Italy blinks and wipes his tears away in confusion. His name? "V-ve?"

He turns; lying in a nearby bed is a middle-aged man, obviously ill with something but nonetheless tilting his head and giving Italy a - a small smile? "It _is_ you!" the sick man repeats to himself. "Imagine that!"

The Italian has to open and close his mouth a few times before he can get any words to come out. "I-I'm sorry? Scusa? - Do I know you? How do you know my name?"

"You don't know me," he replies, "but _I know you_. You're Italian, aren't you?"

"Si!" He has no idea what is going on. He's about to collapse from worry and he needs answers about Germany or he's going to go insane -

"You are!" the man exclaims. "And you look just like he always described!"

"Like he - _What!_" Italy's on his knees. "Like _who_ described?"

The man on the bed just tilts his head in the other direction. "You know who."

He does. Oh, but he _does_. "You know Ludwig?" he demands. "_Please_, tell me!"

The man nods.

"_How?_"

"Do... do you really want to hear?" His eyes have turned a shade darker, as if saddened by Italy's curiosity.

"Yes - I have to hear!" he insists.

For a moment, the thin man in the bed only stares at his hands. "...You sound so sure," he whispers. "Nobody is sure of anything anymore." He sighs. "You know what happened in the camp?"

Italy nods, suddenly scared; he doesn't understand his fear, or why the aching in his hands has suddenly come back with a vengeance. So many lives ended... but Germany _must_ be alive!

"Well... Ludwig was a special case. By the time he arrived, almost everyone was sent to be gassed immediately, but he was considered important - I still don't know _why_ - and instead kept alive on purpose." Of course. Germany wouldn't have been allowed to die; that would have meant the end. "But that doesn't mean he was let off easy."

Suddenly, his fear is justified. "Oh, _God_," Italy gasps.

"I know I was supposed to die," the man in the bed says suddenly. "Being Jewish and arriving when I did, I should have been killed right away - I was stupid, and it nearly cost me. If I'd lied and told them that I'd worked as a laborer, I could have avoided the gas chamber and gone to work until I tired and died. Instead I professed to being a doctor and was almost killed. But then, at the last minute, Ludwig arrived, and they pulled me out of the line to the crematorium."

He's shaking uncontrollably again. "_Why?_"

"Because, I told you. They wanted him _alive_... They did enough things to him that, without a doctor, he would have had no hope," the man finishes softly.

Italy's crying again, and for a moment, he he hates it; it seems crying is all he's capable of anymore. "_Like w-what?_" he whispers.

"No." The man shakes his head. "It was something I agreed to do for him - I made a promise that I would never tell you."

Of all things! "Never tell _me_?"

"Never tell _you_. He was determined that you should never have to know what happened to him - but I never could have guessed that I would actually meet you!" He shakes his head again. "Strange, how the world works."

"How did you know who I was?" Italy asks suddenly.

"He talked of you. He talked of you so often I sometimes got sick of it: _Feliciano the Italian and his bright brown eyes, smiling face, and strange hair curl!_" The man gives a short and hollow bark of laughter. "But it made him feel better, to talk about you and believe that you were someplace safe. So I let him talk." He pauses. "It's a miracle he never once blamed you."

"Blame me?" Did he do something and not realize it? "Ve, I don't understand! _Should_ he have blamed me?"

"You mean you haven't realized?" the man asks, incredulous. "Ludwig wasn't here because of a yellow Star of David, like me - he was not Jewish."

"...Si...?"

"He was here because of a pink triangle."

"A - a pink triangle?" The symbol means nothing to him.

"For being," he clarifies, "homosexual."

His heart absolutely stops; the shaking begins again, even more violently than before, and his hands clench in an attempt to control his body's reflexes. "_No!_" Italy screams in a whisper.

The man blinks and stares at his hands.

"_Where is he now?_" Italy demands.

"I don't know. We were liberated by the Soviets, and I stayed with him - he was worse off towards the end, and I didn't want to abandon him. Then one day, a few weeks ago, some soldiers came and took him away. There was nothing I could do."

Italy's heart feels frozen. "What kind of soldiers?"

"I don't know," he says and shakes his head again. "I don't know."

"Do you remember anything about the men?" he pleads. "_Please, anything!_"

The man pauses and frowns. "They all looked nondescript to me."

"Who was their leader?"

"I don't know. I remember - " He pauses again. "...I think... in German, they joked and called him Der Augenbraue Mann. I don't remember his name or title."

He can't breathe. _He can't breathe._

"...Thank you," Italy manages to choke out. "I need to leave."

"You know where he is?" the man asks, surprised. "You _know_ the man who took Ludwig from this place?"

"I know where to look for him," Italy says, his composure turning cold and his hands falling limp as the reality sinks in, "because I can only think of one man of importance who would earn a nickname from his _eyebrows_."

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

Hopefully anyone who's taken any history classes knows what happened at Nazi concentration camps, so I'm going to skip the large portion of that explanation. What most people probably don't realize, though, is that people outside of the German military had no idea that these camps existed - and quite a few people in the German army, even, didn't know quite what was going on - hence Italy's confused reaction.

I also tried researching where the survivors from Auschwitz went after being liberated (not including the ones who were forced to go cross-country on death marches), but I didn't find any convincing sources, so I just made something up that sounds vaguely plausible. (The city of Krakow, Poland, by the way, survived the war mostly intact, from what I understand, and it's located relatively close to the site of Auschwitz, so it's entirely possible that survivors were moved there for a time. And while I'm mentioning cities, I got a little lazy in my research of the damage to Rome, but I do know that the city wasn't _completely_ trashed from air raids.)

**Additional Author's Notes**

Original characters tend to get a bad reputation in any fandom these days; I'm not always a huge fan of them myself, but they're okay with me so long as they're there to move along the plot and stay out of the focus once they've served their purpose. That being said, chapters two and three are the only ones that really rely on OC involvement to move forward.

Someone asked how long this story will be; several chapters have currently been written out ahead of time, but the exact number is something I would prefer to keep to myself. If you can figure out the chapter titles, though, that might be a hint. (And, if that doesn't help anybody, rest assured that we have quite a ways to go yet.)

This also feels like the best place to mention that Italy goes a bit... crazy... from here on out. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Review?


	4. want

XXX

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane<strong>

_Do you really want_

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>April 1945 <strong>

* * *

><p>They're allied.<p>

That's what gets to him - _Italy and England are allied, now!_ What England knows, Italy should know also! He should have known about Germany being at Auschwitz! Russia may not have ever learned of such a fact, but _England did._ He should have known that England had gone there to search out Germany among the survivors!

_He should have known!_

And what he didn't know in the past absolutely _infuriates_ him now.

It's a vaguely familiar feeling - the last time he remembers being so angry was when France had looked him straight in the eyes and had the nerve to tell him that the only boy he'd ever loved was dead. And for that, they both paid dearly - France with scars, Italy with blood on his hands. On the flight back home to Rome, though, Italy finds that he doesn't care how angry he gets this time. They're _allied_ - there's no excuse for not telling Italy about Germany! If anything, his anger is fueled by the fact that Germany is still out there, somewhere, _alive_; he's not dead, he's not gone, and Italy's vendetta isn't empty. Italy isn't broken quite yet.

The sick doctor he'd talked to had been right to wonder why Germany never blamed him, Italy realizes. He should have hated Italy for running when he did, and for not saving him when he needed to be saved. That's why he has to find Germany now - not only to save himself, but to prove to Germany that he _will_ save him when push comes to shove.

The large majority of his time on the plane is spent wondering how to make England tell him where Germany is and (perhaps to a greater extent) how to best avenge the things he was never told of. When he finally falls asleep, his dreams are filled with fire.

* * *

><p>When he arrives at his home, Romano tells him that Schnabel has run. "That German bastard is probably dead by now."<p>

Italy hangs his head, and some deep part of him wishes he had the option to run as well.

* * *

><p>"Arthur Kirkland speaking."<p>

"E-En-England?"

"Italy?" He sounds worried. "Are you alright? You know I hate to use telephones for - "

"N-no!" Italy cries. "I n-need to t-talk to you in person!"

"You do? Oh. Um... okay. About what?"

"I..." He pauses. "I don't think I t-trust the phone line enough t-to tell you now! But ve, i-it's very important! _Please!_"

England gives a sigh. "Fine. Where are you?"

"Rome."

"I'll be there by tomorrow." The Brit hangs up.

Italy wipes away his tears and clenches his hand in a fist.

* * *

><p>Being a nation and on the winning side of the war, England has no trouble arriving in Italy by early the next morning.<p>

"Sorry 'bout arriving now, Italy," he says with a yawn. "I thought I'd be a little later than I was... didn't mean to wake you up."

Italy is all smiles and flowers and pretending everything is fine. "Ve, it's alright! Would you like some tea? I got the kind you like!"

England perks up a bit at the mention of his tea. "...That would be awfully nice. Please."

He heads into the small kitchen and busies his hands with finding cups and boiling water and doing other meaningless tasks. His anger from the day before is still there, somewhere - it's simmering beneath the surface. That's good. That's very good. The less England suspects he's going crazy, the better. That makes the Brit more vulnerable and surprised, if he doesn't know.

Italy hums to himself when he steps into the parlor with the tray. England has already made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs surrounding the small coffee table. "I daresay, I'm surprised this place survived German occupation."

Careful not to wince at the comment, Italy responds, "Ve... so was I."

England picks up a teacup and brings it to his lips. "So, Italy. Obviously I didn't come here to make small talk - what's this mysterious reason for my - ?"

"Where's Germany?"

The Brit almost spits out his tea. "_Pardon?_"

"_Where's Germany?_" Italy repeats, more desperately than before.

England purses his lips. Had it been a normal conversation, Italy would never have noticed the incriminating action, but right now England is his sole focus. When the Brit speaks again, he speaks dryly. "I don't know."

"I think you do."

"Well. I don't."

"You're lying," Italy accuses, in a low voice that isn't _quite_ intimidating. He's starting to lose his grip on his emotions, but not to the point of action yet. "I think you know where Germany is."

Taking another sip of tea, England's eyes turn cold. "What makes you believe I know such a thing?"

"Because I went to Krakow."

Now, to match his cold eyes, England's face turns red with anger.

"I went to Krakow," Italy repeats steadily, "and I talked to a man there who said that you came and took Germany."

"_Well, how can you possibly prove it was me?_" the Brit explodes. "What could he have possibly said to make you think I have anything to do with that kraut anymore?"

Italy goes silent. He has to keep the anger in until he has an answer or it'll all go downhill, he has to!

England stands up. "If this is all I bloody came for, then I'm not sticking around to - "

"_England!_" Italy pleads, eyes widening with fear. "No, don't go! I'm sorry! _I'm sorry!_" Without even thinking, he bursts into tears. It's his default reaction, and at the moment he really doesn't care that he looks helpless; he's just glad that he hadn't lost all sense and pulled out his -

"Oh, bleeding hell." England looks flustered now, and he quickly digs around in his pocket before handing Italy a handkerchief. "Look," he tries to say soothingly. "_Calm down._"

Italy takes the kerchief and wipes his nose. "So-sorry," he stutters.

"For the love of God, don't be." Speaking of, Italy silently thanks the Lord when England sits back down next to him on the couch instead of advancing out of the room. "That was my fault - obviously this _is_ important to you if you had me fly in all the way from London to discuss it, and there wouldn't be any point of me walking out anyway."

Italy forces a small smile onto his face; for once in his life, he's glad that everyone thinks he's cute enough to be forgiven so easily. "Ve," he says with a sniffle. For dramatics, he cries a bit more before saying, "It's just... _I don't know where he is!_ He could be _anywhere_, and th-there's no way for me t-to track him down!"

"I know, love," England murmurs. "I know."

"B-but if _you_ don't know where he is," Italy exclaims, "than who does?" He chokes on his words for a moment before asking himself, "Who would kn-know?"

"Shh. _Shh._"

"V-ve, England - _I'm so scared for him!_"

"I know! I know_._"

Maybe Italy has been wrong the whole time - what if England really doesn't know where Germany is? Then what is he to do? What then? What then?

Suddenly, he gets a vague idea. "If America we-went missing," he asks between shuddering breaths, "what would you d-do?"

England stiffens.

"If America were to go missing," Italy repeats, holding back more sobs, "a-and if you th-thought he was close to dying, wh-what would you do?"

He's shaking - Italy can feel the tremors coming from the Brit through the piece of furniture they share. "Stop," England whispers.

"How far w-would you go?" he cries. "How l-long would you search? _W-what would you do to s-save him?_"

"Italy, stop!" England whispers more urgently.

"What would you do?" Italy moans to himself. "Maybe the war is still his fault, maybe you're no longer on the same side fighting together, but does that change anything? England, _I have to know - _what would you do?"

"Stop trying to guilt me into this!" the Brit shouts suddenly. "Stop trying to make me feel like the bad guy!"

Italy stops sobbing.

"...So you _do_ know," he whispers.

England doesn't deny it this time; instead, he slowly gets up off the couch. "I'm leaving," he states flatly.

"No!" Italy orders. His voice is shaky, but the tone is unmistakably serious. "_No_, you're not!" He pulls a gun out of his pocket and cocks it, loud and clear. "_You're not leaving until I get an answer!_"

"_Fuck_," he hears England whisper to himself. The Brit glances over his shoulder, just to make sure that there really is a weapon. "You won't kill me," he says, matter-of-fact. "You don't have the guts to kill anyone."

Italy purses his lips and more tears fall down his cheeks. "M-maybe I don't have the guts," he whispers, "but that doesn't matter - if I killed you, I wouldn't get an answer."

He shoots England in the foot.

The Brit screams - it's a short scream, and not very high-pitched, but it proves he's been hit. Italy doesn't look for any sort of confirmation before he's dropped his gun, stood up, and strode over to where England has fallen on the ground. "Tell me," he whispers. He grabs England roughly by the shirt collar, with shaking hands, and pulls him up to face level.

England looks at him with pity. "By God," he croaks.

"_Tell me!_" Italy demands again, this time with a sob.

"By God," England repeats in disbelief. "You really _shot_ me."

"_I did!_" He's so angry right now that he almost wishes the gun was still in his hand so he could shoot England in the other foot. "_I need to know!_" he chokes out after another sob. "_Where's Germany?_"

For a moment or two or maybe several, they stare each other down: England and his eyes full of pity against Italy and his eyes full of hurt. It's a contest, maybe - everything between nations ends up being a contest, sooner or later. That was all that war was to any of them, and that's all it ever will be: one nation trying to outsmart the other.

England breaks it first. "If you want to know," the Brit whispers, "then let me tell you something first: the two of us are very much alike when we're mad. Germany is missing, and you're sick with worry and willing to do _almost_ anything... right?"

Italy almost has his answer; he can feel it on the tip of England's tongue. So close! "_Si_," he sobs back.

"If America were to go missing, though, what I would do proves that there's one major difference between the two of us," England states quietly. "I would also go sick with worry, but unlike you and your _'almost anything'_ - "

Italy feels a gun barrel pressed behind his ear.

" - unlike you, I _would_ do anything," he breathes. "Sorry, Italy."

And for a moment, Italy can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but wonder how England moved his hand so silently and realize that _he's just as helpless as he ever was and he can't save Germany if he dies now!_ -

What happens next is completely unexpected: instead of shooting Italy through the brain, England brings his head forward and smacks it into Italy's with a startling _thwump!_ Italy accidentally shrieks from surprise and lets go of England's shirt collar, which causes the Brit to fall onto the floor, apparently unconscious, and reveal -

"HOLY FUCKING MARY THE MOTHER OF FUCKING GOD!" Romano screams at his brother. "_WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO PISS ENGLAND OFF?_"

But Italy isn't thinking about that - the _hell_ with England for the moment! - His first priority is to hug Romano. "Oh _thank you!_" he breathes. And breathe he does; he inhales and exhales and it feels so _wonderful_ to not be dead! "Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank - "

"Veneziano! Get your damn hands off me!" He pries his younger brother's arms away from his body and glares, "Hell! You got my shirt wet with your crying and sappy shit!"

"Sorry..." Italy wipes a few stray tears away. "B-but thanks for hitting England with - " He pauses and frowns. "Ve, is that a book?"

"What, this piece of shit? D-don't think I was actually reading it or anything!" he vehemently insists.

And then, of all things, Italy stops crying and begins _laughing_.

"What the fuck is so funny?" Romano asks irritably.

He can't help it; he's been so focused and mad and upset lately that as soon as the opportunity to laugh presents itself, he automatically takes it. "_Th-the book!_" Italy manages between gasps. "_Ve!_ You hit him with _Le Morte D'Arthur_!"

Romano blinks and glances at the title in his hands. "That's... well, God _damn_. That's kind of awesome... But seriously, fratello. What the fuck did you do to piss England off?"

Italy's laughter dies down and his eyes widen. "Well, I... u-um... shot him?"

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU SHOT HIM?"

"Ve, I know I shouldn't have," Italy explains quickly, honestly feeling scared that he's hurt someone, "but_ he refused to tell me where Germany is!_"

"SO YOU FUCKING SHOT HIM?"

"...Si." And now, the more he thinks about the fact, the more he realizes that he doesn't regret it. His eyes go back to their normal size. "Si, Romano. I... I shot him."

Romano swears to himself under his breath before looking down at the unconscious Brit and the blood oozing from his pants' leg onto the light hardwood floor.

"Veneziano... you, " he says in a strangely soft voice, "are playing with fire. And you are going to get fucking _burned_."

"Ve?" Italy asks, confused, as he bends down next to England. "Why do you say that?"

"It's what happened to Spain," Romano says quietly. "He got a little too obsessed with hurting people who pissed him off, and that led to one hell of a history for him."

"Then it's a good thing I have you to keep me at least a little sane," Italy says, offering Romano a small smile.

His brother scoffs. "Fuck keeping you sane! _Just don't even bother going after him!_"

Italy stiffens. "Do you want me to shoot _you_, too?"

Romano lets out a squeak and backs away a step; for the first time in his life, Italy is intimidating his brother and not the other way around. "God! _No_, just - "

"_Don't_." It doesn't even sound like his own voice. "_Don't you DARE suggest that I abandon Germany again._"

"OKAY! Holy fuck, don't go psycho on my ass!" Romano bends down. "...So what the hell are we gonna do with this guy?"

Italy frowns. "...I hadn't thought of that."

"Fuuuuuck dammit," he whistles under his breath.

"I wasn't thinking..." Italy admits to himself softly. "But... if England won't tell me where Germany is, then I need to find someone who _will_."

"Maybe you could use this tea-fucker as bait," Romano says with a smirk; Italy frowns with confusion. His brother grins evilly and jokes, "Get France here and tell him you won't hand England over until you find the Potato Bastard."

Italy gasps. "Ve, that's a good idea! France probably _would_ know where Germany is!"

"Yeah," Romano says sarcastically, "and then you could totally shoot that Wino Fucker."

"...I might," Italy says softly. If England knew about Germany, then chances were he told all of the Allies about him... except Italy. _Including France._

Why have so many people been betraying him lately? _He'd trusted his big brother!_

"I think," he says shakily, "I - I think I'll shoot France, too."

"Wait. _You're being fucking serious?_"

"Yes." No hesitation. "I _need_ to find Germany, and I _will_ do anything." At that moment, he makes an important decision to prove England wrong. There will be no "almost anything" for him anymore - because to him, Germany is worth more than that.

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

We obviously don't see much of medieval Spain in Hetalia canon, but based on actual Spanish history, we can assume he went pretty darn crazy for a while, hence Romano's comment about it. (Short note of interest here: Himaruya never shows it in the strips unless it's used to be funny, but he actually classifies Spain as a yandere somewhere in his notes. Think of that what you will.)

**Additional Author's Notes**

I've seen some fanfics done where _everything_ that happens to the nation-tan effects the government/land/people of that country - but for this particular story, the health of the personification isn't going to effect the actual country. So in this instance, Italy shooting England in the leg isn't going to mean that, say, Parliament gets blown up. (That was an awful example, so please don't quote me on it.) I am going to say, however, that if the nation-tan dies, the country would collapse... And thinking along the opposite lines, the health of the overall country is going to have some effect on the nation-tan throughout the fic. This is where the whole "recession = cold" thought-process comes in, but I'm not going to bore you all to death with that explanation because it'd take quite a while to get the point across.

Why do I get the feeling that the paragraph above is just me rambling and not making much sense?... Shame. I can usually explain things more eloquently than that.

Reviewing now means that the next chapter gets posted sooner.


	5. me

XXX

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane<strong>

_Do you really want me_

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>April 1945 <strong>

* * *

><p>"France," Italy says into the phone, without voicing a greeting, "ve, you need to get over here as soon as possible."<p>

The Italian can almost perfectly imagine the look of confusion and disbelief on his older brother's face at being called so suddenly; the surprise is, indeed, evident in his voice when he finally answers, "Italy? What's wrong?"

"Nothing right now." Nothing except for the world, _literally_, conspiring to keep him from Germany. "Ve, do you remember what happened in 1805?"

France is silent for a long time at that. "...I remember very well," he responds cautiously, "Italy, is there a particular reason to bring up such a, ah, a _sensitive_ topic at this time?"

He purses his lips and swallows, hard, before specifying, "History is about to repeat itself. You need to get over here before I do something we'll _all_ regret."

There is something that sounds like a gasp and, this time, his older brother speaks with much less hesitation and much more urgency. "I'm on my way." He pauses and adds, "_Please_, for the love of all that's holy, don't do anything rash!"

He hangs up, and Italy stares at the phone in his hand.

"Too late," he whispers.

* * *

><p>When France shows up on Italy's doorstep only a few hours later, he actually looks scared.<p>

"...Salut, Italy," he says stiffly, in a voice that isn't quite as carefree as it should be.

Italy frowns. "I didn't expect you here for several more hours. Ve, you came from Paris?"

He shakes his head. "Avignon. I don't mean to be rude, but what is going on?"

After thinking to himself for a moment, Italy cheerfully says, "Ve, I'll explain in a moment - please, come in!"

France slowly nods, letting his guard down and stepping inside. "Of course..." He outwardly relaxes a bit when he sees Italy smile - even though he clearly knows the danger that could be lurking behind it - and adds, "I'm sorry to have arrived on such a short notice. You were not expecting me here quite so soon, I'm sure, but when - "

He stops speaking and inhales sharply. Italy turns back to see his older brother frozen in his tracks, openly gaping at something on the floor in the parlor.

"_Mon Dieu_," he breathes.

Italy frowns and stares for a moment, confused. "France? What's wrong?"

"Is that... _blood_?"

"Blood?" Italy blinks and searches the floor for a second or two before seeing it - a small pool close to the wall, where it is slightly obscured by shadows from the furniture. He must have missed it when he was cleaning up after - ! His face pales. "Um..."

"Italy!" It's an urgent whisper. "By God, whose is it?"

He bites his lip. "I... um... I'll... explain?"

Now France is definitely scared. "It's not yours." Somehow, it doesn't seem as though he's asking a question; it sounds more like he's referring to a death sentence than a few drops of crimson on a hardwood floor.

"Ve, but there was a good reason behind it!" he says, quickly. "I haven't done anything that can't be fixed! I didn't do nearly as much damage to anyone as I did to you that one time, I swear! I just..." He trails off when he realizes France is giving him an intense stare filled with worry and caution and something else unnatural that he can't quite name. "...Please sit. Per favore," he says softly.

France does move to the couch and sit, but he does so carefully, as if he's afraid to set Italy off somehow. "Please," he says steadily. "Tell me what is going on."

Pity! That's what he sees in those eyes - and he's had enough pity for a lifetime! "Stop looking at me like that," Italy says in a low voice.

"Pardon?" France's gaze becomes cloudier, more upset and perplexed. "Look at you, how?"

"Don't look at me like England did!" Italy snaps, feeling his eyes water at the mention of the incident earlier. "He looked at me with that exact same expression, prepared to give me all the pity in the world! I don't need pity; I need answers!"

"Angleterre?" Now confusion has melted away into something akin to fear again. "You talked with England! You didn't hurt him, did you?"

Italy doesn't answer, and France's hand curls into a shaking fist.

"Oh no."

"I shot him." The anger is coming back again, slowly but surely. "I _did_! Because he deserved it!"

"Where is he now?" France asks quickly.

He shakes his head. "It's not important. I shot him, but I stopped the bleeding. He was perfectly fine when I last saw him, and I'm sure he's still alive, but - " he prepares himself for the tears that he already knows are coming, " - but as much as I beg and plead for answers,_ I still can't say the same about Germany._"

And there he is again: a sobbing mess, back at square one; still without answers, still lost, still completely useless, still poor little Italy who exists to be pitied by everyone who claims to love him. He barely even notices when France wraps his arms around him in a tight hug, and he's bawling loudly enough that he almost misses the next thing his big brother says.

"So that's what this is about? Allemagne?" He sighs, but it is not a weary sigh or an angry one; it sounds as though he's made a fateful decision.

"V-v-ve?" Italy chokes out.

"...I'll tell you everything I know, if you tell me where England is in exchange."

Instead of calming him down, this causes him to cry harder - for a moment or two, he doubts his resolve to shoot France. "I w-will! Wh-where i-is he?"

"Warsaw."

Back in Poland? "Wh-why?"

"I never saw him, but..." France pauses and seems to make the hug even tighter. "...England had told me specifically," he whispers, "that he was in very bad shape."

Italy can only think of the former prisoners and their bones protruding from their skin and their eyes nearly escaping their sockets and it's _too much!_ Too much! Germany can't possibly look like that! Italy sobs harder, soaking France's shirt, and the material almost muffles his voice beyond recognition when he asks, "How b-bad?"

"I don't know. But they moved him from Krakow to Warsaw, where better medical care is more accessible - and by God, Italy!" France strokes his hair and tries to soothe him. "I almost think England was right in not telling you, because surely Germany would not like for you to see him in such a state!"

Italy stiffens. "Y-you think England was _right_ keeping it f-from m-me?"

"Non! I almost do, but not quite!"

Almost.

That's far, far too close.

Italy is about to pull away and show France how much he _almost_ wishes he wasn't going to shoot him, but before he can move at all - or even stop crying, for that matter - France has already gripped Italy's shoulders and pried them apart, looking absolutely mortified.

"Italy." The pitch of his voice has gone upward, from its usual tenor to something more soprano. "Who just screamed?"

He has to listen for just a moment before he can hear it. Screaming. Muffled - but still discernable - screaming... Specifically, England's screaming.

"Italy!" France's voice is becoming exceedingly desperate. "_You said that you only shot him!_"

Italy swallows. "I d-did." He dries his eyes. "I did only sh-shoot him, but then... Romano hit him a-and we d-decided that while I talked to you he c-could do what he wanted!"

"Oh non - but Angleterre has committed no transgressions against Romano!" France tries to reason, more to himself than to his younger brother. "When could he have possibly found reason to hurt England?"

"I-in 1588," Italy says with pursed lips. "Spain might not hold grudges very easily, but Romano is a d-different matter."

France is as white as a sheet and shaking now. Italy is shaking, too, and his hands are feeling so weighted down, and he's still crying, but also so very, very determined to defend his brother and still shoot France when the convenient time comes along.

"Where is he?" France whispers.

"No."

"Italy!"

"N-no!" He's so angry - he had to beg to find Germany! Why shouldn't France have to do the same to get back England, if he's really so precious to him?

"You said that you would tell me where England is if I told you where Germany is!"

"Maybe I've ch-changed my mind!"

"Italy! _Please!_"

"OI! FRATELLO! How can you get the Tea Bastard to stop - "

Out of nowhere, Romano appears in the doorway. For a moment, no words are exchanged as the older Italian stares at the two of them, but his gaze abruptly shifts solely to France and his face contorts in fury.

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY BROTHER, YOU FUCKING WINO!"

With a jolt, France apparently realizes that he's still gripping Italy by the shoulders and quickly breaks the contact; his eyes, directed at Romano, narrow. "What have you done to Angleterre?"

"Me? Nothing!"

"Romano!"

"No, seriously! I came up here to ask Veneziano how the fuck I should calm that bastard down, because he started screaming his head off when I mentioned that 'the damn wino is coming over'!"

France blinks a few times before he visibly relaxes a bit. "So you have not touched him?"

The older Italian, his eyes daring, lets his lip curve up. "Not yet."

The Frenchman, after a second to think the implications of the sentence over, gives Romano an uncharacteristic sneer. "Why, you _slimy little_ - " The insult isn't finished as, instead, France begins to stride across the room towards Romano, pure fury expressed in every feature of his face.

Romano's eyes widen, and any courage he might have worked up disappears instantly as he looks frightened for his life. "Oh, FUCK - !"

"_NO!_"

Romano screams, and, only milliseconds away from a fight, France nearly falls on top of him as his legs give out. It takes a moment for the current situation to register to the southern Italian, but with the blood on the floor, it becomes apparent very quickly.

Italy's hands, still holding his Beretta, are shaking so violently it looks like he's having a seizure.

"_Sweet mother of fuck_," Romano squeaks. "YOU SHOT THE WINO. _YOU ACTUALLY SHOT THE FUCKING WINO!_"

"I t-_told_ you!" he says - and as much as he's infuriated and maybe even glad that he'd done it, he's still bawling like a baby. He can't even decide if it's because he's hurt another person or if it's because he became so scared for Romano only moments before.

France rolls onto his front, his breathing labored and unsteady. A crimson stain is slowly but surely spreading on his back, in almost the very center. "A-a-a-a-a..."

"Mio Dio!" Italy chokes out. He abandons his gun entirely and drops it with a loud _clang!_ on the hard floor as he rushes over and kneels down next to his older brother; as his knees hit the floor, it hits him what he's done. "OH GOD, I'M SO SORRY FRANCE! _Mi dispiace mi dispiace mi d-dispiace_ - "

"A-a-_allez._"

_Go._

"Wh-_what_?"

He bends over further, trembling, and puts his ear next to France's mouth to make sure he's heard the order correctly. And after a moment, he hears it again. "_Allez!_"

"What?" Romano asks, sitting on the floor next to him. "The hell is he saying?"

"Wh-why?" Italy asks, desperation sinking in. "_Why?_"

"A-Alle-Alle - "

"What the fuck is he saying?"

"Fratello, _be quiet!_"

Surprisingly enough, Romano listens.

"Allez! A-Alle - "

"What are you saying?" Italy moans to himself.

"_Allemagne._"

His breath hitches. _Germany_ - who is still out there, who needs him, who may be in worse condition than even France! _Germany!_

"GERMANY!"

"What? Veneziano, what the fu - "

"_I have to go!_"

"WHAT? YOU'RE LEAVING ME HERE WITH A HYSTERICAL ENGLAND AND AN ALMOST-DEAD FRANCE, _AFTER_ YOU SHOT THE HELL OUT OF HIS CHEST?"

"I know! I'm sorry!" He dashes over to pick up his gun and put it in his belt. "B-besides! I only fired one sh-shot, and he's a nation s-so he isn't going to d-die!"

"HOW THE FUCK CAN YOU SOUND SO POSITIVE? AND THAT'S NOT THE POINT - "

"Romano! _Please!_" His eyes water again. "_I know where G-Germany is! I NEED to go!_"

Romano scowls. "You're abandoning me for the Potato Bastard _again_!"

"What w-would you do if you had to choose between me a-and Spain?" Italy cries. "_Please!_"

For a moment, there is pure, unadulterated silence.

"Would you listen to my opinion anyway?"

"_No_." It comes out harsher than he means for it to.

"...Then God damn it," Romano says, voice cracking. "Get the hell out of here."

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

The reference to 1588 was about the infamous Spanish Armada vs. English Armada incident, where Spain got himself seriously whupped. Most of you probably know the story by now, so I won't bother with details.

Also, this is more of a stupid joke than a historical note, but do any of the true history nerds think it's funny that France heads over to Rome after being in Avignon? Geddit? Anyone?... No?...

**Additional Author's Notes**

I realize that this chapter is shorter than the others so far, but the next one is a monster (in comparison) at more than 5,000 words long; hopefully that makes up for anything that might be lacking a little here.

All your praises and constructive criticisms make my day. Seriously.


	6. dead

XXX

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane<strong>

_Do you really want me dead_

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>April 1945 <strong>

* * *

><p>It's a long plane ride that lasts through the night, and it leaves Italy almost hopelessly confused. The longer he finds himself lost in his thoughts, the more his memories and resolutions become cloudy and dark with doubt.<p>

What has he done?

He's lied, blackmailed, and shot two people within the past 24 hours - he can comprehend it and yet can't believe it at the same time. Him, scared little Italy! The feeling of it leaves his chest pressured and his eyes tired. It isn't so much the lies (_I'll tell you where England is! Just tell me what happened to Germany!_), because he's done that before, out of fear and cowardice and loyalty; it's the rest that is beginning to wear him down. By God, he's never shot a man in his life! The only other times he'd ever even held a gun...

He turns and stares out the window. The other times hurt to think about - not because they were upsetting in themselves, but because he'd been satisfied then. It's a painful contrast, comparing the early days of training to the escalation of the war. Now, he's completely miserable and only proven to himself that he's useless in a fight; then, he had really believed that he could make a difference, really believed that there he could achieve something - he had been _happy_.

The only times he'd held a gun before, in his entire life spanning centuries - it had been during training, with Germany. "You have to learn how to use a firearm, Italy," he'd said, as if the issue was a matter-of-fact. "My boss says so, and I agree."

At the time, he'd been extremely skeptical and scared of it. "B-but Germany! Ve, what if I mess it up? What if I hurt someone?"

With his usual irked expression, Germany sighed. "I should think this is obvious, but if you're using a gun, the point _is_ to hurt someone."

"I can't! _I can't!_" he remembers he flailed helplessly, actually dropping the weapon in the process. "I could never shoot anybody!"

With patience that many could only hope to achieve, Germany bent over to pick up the rifle and gently put it back in Italy's shaking hands. "Italy," he said steadily. "I understand that you don't want to hurt anyone."

He nodded.

"But if it came between shooting someone or being shot yourself," Germany asked as he looked Italy straight in the eyes, "which would you pick?"

He bit his lip. "I d-don't know!"

"...Alright then. What if it was between you taking a life, or having Romano killed?"

Italy gasped. "I don't know!" he exclaimed. "I - I _might!_ But..." he paused, "but... maybe not even for him. Ve, I don't know - "

"For me, then."

He blinks, in both real time and in his memories, and he remembers that he'd then said, uncertainly, "G-Germany? You want to know - ?"

"Would you shoot someone for me?"

_He can't breathe - even so many years later, he can still remember the exact feeling of that moment._

"Probably," he whispered.

Germany considered that for a moment before deciding that he wouldn't get a better answer. "Alright then. Now, Italy - you begin by holding a rifle like this, with the end pressed up against your shoulder and your hands positioned _here_ and _here_." He points at two different places on the weapon. "Got it?"

"O-okay..." How did Germany manage to make it sound easy? Gingerly he tried to readjust his grip, but he found it too awkward for his slender hands. "Um... ve, like this?"

Germany sighed. "Here."

Before Italy had been able to fully comprehend it, Germany had maneuvered his arms around the Italian's frame and adjusted his positioning.

"There. Like that."

"...Si..." Italy managed, his throat suddenly becoming dry at holding the rifle like a professional killer. Or was it because of Germany's hands, enclosed around his own, and the lost distance between them?

"It's a good start," Germany said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

* * *

><p>...Was that where it had started?<p>

It's difficult to say. The line between love and friendship, for him, is very thin indeed. Maybe it was that moment he'd crossed that barrier - maybe it happened the moment where Italy consciously realized that he _might_ be capable of doing something as serious as murder for Germany. But maybe it wasn't that time. Maybe it was earlier, when they had formed the Pact of Steel with a pinky-swear and an exchange of wurst. Maybe it was later, in Africa. Maybe it was some time in between.

Maybe... maybe those memories will be all he has left...

NO! He will find Germany! He will save him, and he will do whatever it takes! There _will_ be a happy end to the story; Italy refuses to let himself think the ending will be anything but!

A sudden thought makes its way to the forefront of his mind, and after a second or two of thinking, he recollects the memory he wants - That Moment, years ago, when Italy's vague hopes had finally come to fruition. In their tent, they'd desperately needed to cling to something at three in the morning, and finally they'd found something to hold onto in each other.

"Nobody can know," Germany had said in a whisper, while pressing his lips to Italy's knuckles. "Do you understand, Feliciano?"

Italy had mussed with the blonde's hair. It was so strange, hearing Germany say his human name, yet he liked the sound of it very much. But... no, he didn't understand; nothing had happened between them other than fevered whispers and a few kisses, and already they were to be silent? "Ve, why?"

"Our bosses would never approve," was the reply. "We have to be very careful to not say anything outside of this tent - and quiet _in_ this tent, even - or they will surely hear of it." Germany paused. "I believe they would... frown upon it. It may be dangerous."

He'd known Germany was right, of course - Germany thought too carefully to be wrong about something like that. "I won't tell a soul."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He had known.

Almost drowning in the moment, Italy realizes that _Germany had known!_ He had known about the pink triangles! He had been worried that, even then, Italy might have been taken away from him to one of those awful camps! He had known that the only way to keep Italy safe had been to... to send him away, near the end...

"He should hate me," Italy whispers to himself, as he stares out the plane window. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe again, first for one minute, then two, then until he finally is unaware of the world around him.

If anyone might look at him closely while he slept, they might notice he's crying again.

* * *

><p><strong>October 1943<strong>

* * *

><p>"They'll kill you. God knows, our government is so weak right now that they'd have no trouble succeeding if they tried."<p>

"...Romano..."

"Veneziano - ?"

"I love him. I _love_ him. And he loves me."

"Oh no you _don't_! Don't you _dare_ try to pull any of that sappy shit on me - "

"Goodbye."

"_NO!_ VENEZIANO, YOU _MOTHER FUCKING_ - "

* * *

><p><strong>April 1945<strong>

* * *

><p>As soon as he exits the plane, he realizes there really is nothing left.<p>

Nearly the whole city of Warsaw has been bombed into the ground. Other than soldiers, there are no people anywhere in the ruins; shells of buildings remain in some areas, but the smell of black smoke still hangs in the air where they do not.

Why would Germany be here?

Italy doesn't understand - France had said he'd been moved here for the medical care! Why would there be doctors here? Why would this be - Why?

He turns to the Soviet guide who offered to take him around the city (or rather, what's left of it). "I'm looking for a man named Beilschmidt," he says, his voice only wavering slightly.

The soldier blinks once or twice before his eyes widen and he nods. "He's this way. You follow me, da?"

"Si. Da."

Italy is driven quite a distance across the desolate ruins; seeing the skeletons of the buildings fills him with a sickening feeling of horror and anticipation, and he has to force his head down and cover his ears to keep himself from thinking too hard. Eventually, though, the jeep slows to a stop, and the soldier gently touches him on the shoulder. "We are here." He kills the engine. "You can go inside this building here and see; I will wait here."

Italy's eyes look up, and he realizes that they've passed into an area of the city where a few buildings still stand almost fully intact. "Grazie," he murmurs as he exits the vehicle.

Cautiously, after crossing the street, he opens the door and peers inside. What he sees surprises him a little - the interior is very clean, albeit a bit plain, and looks almost entirely untouched by the war. The worn walls give it the feeling of having been lived in, once, rather like an old apartment building, and this odd perception is encouraged by the long hallway he sees beyond another soldier, who is casually sitting there guarding it from the curious.

"Can I help you?" he asks with a weary look.

"I'm looking for a... a Beilschmidt," Italy says, again.

This new soldier gives a low whistle. "Tough luck. I don't think he wants to see anyone."

The Italian's heart stops. "E-excuse me? But I need to see him!"

"Sorry, kid." He shakes his head. "Sorry, but.. his brother's real sick. He doesn't want to see anyone."

"Gilbert! _Gilbert is sick?_" The_ both_ of them, now?

The soldier looks at him strangely before his eyes widen in recognition. "No no no - kid! Gilbert Beilschmidt is fine; it's _his_ brother that - "

"_GOTT VERDAMMT!_"

A distinctly German scream echoes down the hall and causes both Italy and the guard to jump simultaneously. Moments later, a door at the opposite end of the hall is brutally slammed open, and a blur of a blue and white figure is screaming and cursing for all his worth.

"FICKEN! _ARSCHLÖCKER!_ FICKEN FICKEN FICKEN! F-ficken! _F-f-ficken!_"

The man turns and notices Italy, and suddenly his expression of anger melds away into complete and utter hopelessness.

"..._Ficken_," he repeats to himself, very softly.

Italy never, _ever_ could have predicted that Prussia would then sink to the floor, curl up in a ball, and begin _sobbing_.

"Holy shit," the soldier whispers.

He doesn't make any attempt to stop Italy as he rushes over to to the incapacitated nation on the ground. Never, in his whole life, has Italy seen Prussia cry - and now to be _sobbing_? It scares him; he feels much more frightened now than when he did without any prior knowledge of the situation. "Prussia? _Prussia?_"

"Mein Gott," he chokes out, as he buries his head even deeper into his own hands. "_OH! Mein G-Gott!_"

Italy is on his knees. "Prussia! _Prussia_, please, what - "

"Oh, _ficken!_" the Prussian sobs; suddenly, he sits up and absolutely _throws_ his arms around Italy. "Oh ficken, Ludwig - Ludwig i-ist - "

"_Prussia!_" he whispers desperately.

"Ludwig stirbt," he croaks. "Oh Gott, _Ludwig stirbt!_"

...

Time stops.

It just... stops.

...

...

"...No," Italy says, shaking his head. Denial; that's the key at the moment. "No, that can't be right! S-say that again!"

"_Ludwig stirbt!_"

"In French!" Maybe... maybe he's translating it wrong -

"Ludwig est meurt!"

"Spanish!"

"Ludwig está muriendo!"

"_In Italian!_" he begs, shaking. Denial denial denial -

"Ludwig sta morendo!"

NO! "_ENGLISH!_"

"_Ludwig - i-is - dying!_"

"No!" he whispers.

"Doch!"

"NO! _NO, P-PRUSSIA!_" He pulls them apart and looks in those dull red eyes. "H-HE CAN'T BE! _NO!_"

Prussia says nothing to agree; the tears have stopped, but the absolute hopelessness remains and leaves him looking utterly hollow.

Italy is choking on his own breath, trying to inhale and exhale in vain. This can't be happening - it _can't_ - no no no no no no no no! "L-let me see h-him," he pleads, his throat caught full of screams he will never let loose. "I can't believe you u-until I see h-him!"

Looking more defeated than ever, Prussia nods mutely.

* * *

><p>It's so much worse than he imagined.<p>

He had believed he'd seen the worst - the other survivors had been so, so thin, after all - but those others had had time to heal some. In retrospect, they'd looked downright plump and healthy!

"P-Prussia," Italy asks after peering in a door, upstairs, and seeing a skeleton in a bed, "where's G-Germany? He's here, r-right?"

Prussia stares at him and doesn't speak.

"No, no that can't be Germany! P-Prussia, where - "

"That's him," the albino croaks, hoarse from his earlier crying and screaming. Now, he's turned almost completely silent but is no less visibly upset.

"That's... him?" It's a lie, coming off of his tongue. Italy can't believe it. "That's Germany?"

"That's him. Fuck all, that's m-my brother."

But no! No, Italy has found Germany - the hardest part should be over - he should be done crying over everything! "No!"

"G-go see. It's him."

Italy is screaming internally that he _can't_ go and see, he _can't_ believe it, he can't he can't _he can't!_ His feet, however, follow a different set of directions and slowly begin to shuffle.

A skeleton.

It's not right, he keeps telling himself. Germany is big and strong, not thin and fragile, like this - the man he's staring at has lost chunks of his light hair, and his sickly pale skin is shrunken to conform against his bones. It's not right. Whoever this man is, his breathing is labored; his face, when it isn't wincing from some sort of pain, is blank, and his eyes are always shut. _It's not right._

His left arm is tattooed. The blue ink is the only color his body has.

"Be careful," Prussia warns from the doorway.

Italy is; very gingerly, he grasps this sick man's left hand, intertwining bony fingers with his own, and has to wonder, still. This can't be Germany!... He can't be... He can't... "L-Ludwig?" he stutters in a whisper.

The skeleton's eyelids flicker open.

_It's him._

Italy almost screams, again, because he recognizes those baby-blue eyes like he knows the depths of his own soul. It's really Germany - it really is - oh, _God!_

Germany's hand flexes ever so slightly - so slightly that Italy almost misses it - and his face stretches into a very small smile; the action looks downright painful. "F... Fe... li... c-ci..."

"_Shh._" Italy's eyes widen with horror at his voice - so hoarse, so nearly inaudible, so unlike the commanding baritone he's come to expect. "D-don't talk i-if it hurts! I - "

He has to pause and choke before he can get any other words out; he presses Germany's bony hand to his cheek for a moment as he tries to swallow the crying that he knows is unavoidable. The German blinks slowly, obviously using a great deal of willpower to keep his eyes open but never once straying his gaze.

"...Y-you're so strong," Italy says softly, gripping the hand tighter. "You're so, s-so _strong_."

The hand flexes.

"I - I know. I - " His voice cracks. "_I'm r-right here._ R-right here!"

The muscles in the hand slacken, and gently - ever so gently! - Italy lays it back on the edge of the bed. His doesn't let go, though, still reassuring Germany he's there by softly rubbing his thumb against the back of the bones.

"H-hold on," he stutters. "Ich l-leibe dich - _ho-hold on!_"

Perhaps Germany's will-power has finally run out, or maybe he's heard enough of the right things - either way, his eyes close and his breathing becomes slightly less forced. Italy chokes again - _Germany!_ - and gently, afraid of breaking something, bends over and presses his lips to Germany's forehead.

"Hold o-on!" becomes his mantra. "H-hold o-on! Ho-hold - oh, Dio! H-ho-hold - "

He can't. He just _can't_; to come so far and see everything he's wanted waste away before his very eyes! It's a horrible thing to happen, and he doesn't wish it upon anyone else, ever. He's crying, and if he though he'd ever been upset before in his life, whatever he thought he felt was so minuscule in comparison to this! He can't comprehend this! He can't!

_Germany Germany Germany Germany Germany -_

Prussia comes back - he'd gone? - with a towel, and he tosses it at Italy. He wipes his eyes once, then again, then again. Prussia stands in the same spot and seems to be staring upward into space, but sometimes his gaze flickers downward onto their hands and - Italy could swear he sees it - a small flame of jealousy appears in his eyes.

"Let's talk," he abruptly orders in a mildly raspy voice. "You're just _awesome_ enough to him that you deserve to know what's going on. Let's have a fucking talk."

Italy ignores Prussia's tone, quite certain he didn't mean to be as harsh as he was. They head into the hall; the door is closed, and for a moment Italy can almost pretend that things are fine.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

"H-how'd you decide he's d-dy-dy - " By God, he can't even _say_ it. The towel finds itself wiping his face again.

"I didn't - the doctors did." Prussia kicks the wall with almost enough strength to put his foot through the plaster. "Those sons of bitches are _giving up._"

A spark of that anger he'd had before, when talking to England and France the previous day, abruptly comes back. "Th-they're giving up!"

"And I..." The Prussian sinks to the ground slowly, against the wall. "I _can't_ find myself blaming them - fuck!"

"You c-can't!" The anger disappears and is replaced with confusion and alarm; Italy follows him onto the floor. "W-why not?"

"They've tried everything! Gott!"

"E-everything?"

"_Everything!_" he repeats, choking up ever so slightly once again. "They've fixed what they can, b-but his - his body just keeps rejecting it all!" He sighs, defeated. "It wouldn't be so bad if he were just a _human_, but since he's a nation, the land and government and all of that absolute_ shit_ keeps adding and adding and - " He stops, abruptly, and his eyes widen. "Gott, but if he _was_ a human, he'd definitely be dead already..."

"Why?"

"_Why?_"

"Y-yes! Si! _Why?_"

"They _did_ shit to him, that's why," Prussia answers quietly.

"_Like what?_"

Their dull eyes meet.

"I'm pretty damn sure," he says dryly, "that you don't _want_ to know."

"I do," Italy breathes, pleading. "I flew to Krakow and talked with a doctor to find answers, then flew back to Rome. The next day, I sh-_shot_ England in the leg because he wouldn't tell me anything - "

"_Holy shit!_"

" - and later that same day, I shot France in the chest!" Italy is shaking from the memories of it all - how many years ago did those things happen? - but no! It's been days! Mere hours! "I - I've come too far to not hear the truth n-now!"

Prussia swallows. "Gott, did you really?"

Italy nods.

He purses his lips. "I... I don't completely know... but - "

"Tell me!"

"...It's going to break your heart."

"I kn-know."

Prussia exhales.

"They starved him; you assumed that, I'm sure. But then - oh, Gott - his whole chest and - and his back are both scarred with burns f-from something red hot they deliberately _hit_ him w-with - and - and his feet have motherfucking _bruises_ that _still_ haven't disappeared, and - oh, hell - his right hand! Did you notice that?"

He's absorbing it all, and he can't believe anyone would do things so horrible - _and that isn't all?_ "No!" he cries.

"They snapped all five of his fingers - _multiple fucking times_." Italy shrieks aloud at that, but Prussia still continues. "And those bastards - " he's choking up again, " - those bastards gave him shit through needles, and y-you can tell because his whole r-right arm is infected and turning _green as fucking hell_ under the bandages - and there're cuts all over him! Holy Gott, th-those might be the worst, because you know they had to hurt so so bad and - and - _fuck!_"

Prussia steals Italy's towel and tries to dry off his face, even though it's already soaked. Now Italy's tears just slide down his cheeks and onto his clothes, but he doesn't even notice anymore.

" - And he's my _b-brother!_" Prussia finishes. "I can't _believe_ I was busy doing useless _sh-shit_ while he was there rotting away _and I didn't even f-fucking know!_"

Too much; Italy bursts into fresh sobs again and grabs for Prussia, the only person there.

"I kn-know," the Prussia says, holding him reflexively. "By Gott, I-I kn-know."

"Wha-what about th-the tattoo?" Italy manages.

"They a-all got one - all the people sent th-there wh-who weren't gassed after _two f-fucking seconds_ got one."

A regular prisoner - but not. Italy feels himself walking a tightrope between despair and action - but what? He can't do anything!

(He never could.)

Despair and horror add and lead to nothing; he doesn't want to move, he doesn't want to stop crying, he still doesn't want to admit that Prussia's right - _Germany's dying_. He's _dying_, by God, and Italy can't do a single thing about it! He sobs harder.

"W-we can't do shit." Prussia croaks in agreement to his thoughts. "Gott! I haven't amounted to fucking shit and - and now I'm stuck here feeling sorry for myself! And for what?" He cracks his knuckles against Italy's back and sighs, angrily. "Unless s-someone is awesome enough to fucking shoot Hitler o-or s-something like that, h-he's gonna d-die..."

...

Wa... Wait...

Shoot Hitler?

What would that do? The German army is already losing, horribly - but then again, those who remain are encouraged to keep fighting because their leading figure isn't dead - and what would that do, if he did die? Stop the physical bombs - unite the ones who want to fight with those who have already given up - end the war.

If only that would be enough. It's wishful thinking - the death of one man could never do so much damage.

...He doesn't know, though. He doesn't often consider it, but human attachments to some figures can be ridiculously strong... so maybe... maybe it could be done...

_Is_ it enough? Would settling Germany - not Ludwig, but Germany - would settling the land and the people and the government make enough of a difference to save the human side of the nation? He doesn't know! Maybe so, but maybe not! But is it worth a try?

Another thought strikes him: whose fault is it that Germany is this way? Who knew that he was being tortured to such extremes? Who was ultimately responsible for all those millions of deaths? Who!

His hand, already clenched, tightens so much he nearly breaks his own thumb. Abruptly, he realizes that he hasn't been crying for a few minutes now, although there are still tear-stains on his face - it's so strange! In one instant, he's feeling so helpless, so defeated, and now that he stops to think, he realizes all of this and becomes absolutely _infuriated_.

What will he do?

_"Italy. I understand that you don't want to hurt anyone. But if it came between shooting someone or being shot yourself, which would you pick?"_

_"I d-don't know!"_

_"What if it was between you taking a life, or having Romano killed?"_

_"Ve, I don't know - "_

_"For me, then."_

_..._

For him?

_He would do more. _

A mercenary? That's a coward's way to work - he's going to murder that absolute _bastard_ himself! Shooting him? That's too easy - he's going to make him suffer as much as possible. He's going to do more damage than a human ever could - he's going to show them a _hurricane_ of fury, he's going to show them what happens when someone touches _his_ Germany, and he's going to make that low-life regret that he'd ever even been _born!_

"You okay?" Prussia asks, suddenly. "You're real quiet, now."

Inhale, exhale - that's the other odd thing. Now that he has an idea of what needs to be done, a vague plan, he feels like he can _breathe_ again.

"Prussia," he asks in a low voice, "could I be capable of killing someone?"

There's a sudden pause in the Prussian's unconscious movements, as though he really needs to think about the answer. "...I don't know. I guess - I guess it depends on wh-what you would or... or wouldn't be willing to do to save my br-brother, if you could."

To save Germany? To save the person who means more to him than the entire rest of the world? Would he? Could he?

That settles it.

"..._Nothing,_" Italy says coldly, with tears still on his cheeks. "There is _nothing_ I won't do to save Germany."

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

Warsaw, Poland, was almost totally annihilated by the Nazis; Hitler planned to build an entirely new "provincial German city" there, so he ordered troops to destroy some 85% of the buildings before the Soviets captured it, including almost all structures of historical and/or educational value. By the time the city was being razed, all the civilians had been either killed, sent to various concentration camps, or forced into Germany as slave laborers. (This happened in the year or by the year 1944, by the way.)

Also, I think Prussia would probably be in Warsaw and not fighting anymore because, while he was technically in the Axis, his territory had been completely taken over by the Allies at this point.

**Additional Author's Notes**

Ugh, a chapter titled "dead." Really, things can hardly get more depressing than that.

And of course a few of you had already guessed it is Hitler who's going to end up dead. That concept is the driving force of the story, true enough, but I don't personally see that as the _point_ of this fic. Hopefully, something a bit deeper is being expressed here.

Review, please.


	7. or

XXX

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane<strong>

_Do you really want me dead _  
><em>or<em>

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>April 1945 <strong>

* * *

><p>It's suicide.<p>

He considers this as he stands next to the phone, twirling the cord nervously around his finger. There's a lot weighing on his mind right now, an awful lot compared to what he normally thinks about. But this is war, and he'll do anything for Germany, and "anything" just might lead to suicide in the end.

He does understand, really. He understands, since it's been decided that killing Hitler is what he needs to do, that he might not make it out alive in enemy territory, and he accepts that because there is no other choice and because Germany is worth whatever price he has to pay. He hopes the other nations realize that.

The call connects.

"...Hhhhhhhh... Who the fuck is it?"

"It's me," Italy says softly.

"...VENEZIANO? _WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?_" Italy cringes and holds the phone away from his ear. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THE FUCK I'VE BEEN THROUGH SINCE YOU ABANDONED ME TO THAT HYSTERICAL TEA BASTARD AND A BLEEDING FRENCHIE? THAT FUCKING POTATO-HEAD HAD BETTER BE _DAMN GRATEFUL_ YOU PICKED HIM OVER ME RIGHT NOW!

Romano pauses and Italy takes the opportunity to say, "Ve, I'm so sorry I had to leave you, but - but I'm in Warsaw, and things are - "

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH ENGLAND SCREAMED AT ME?" Romano interrupts.

"Romano! I don't - "

"HE FLIPPED OUT! HE WENT ALL '_BLOODY FUCKING SHIT, THE FROG GOT SHOT!_' AND HAD HIS INCAPACITATED ASS MOVED TO A LONDON HOSPITAL AS SOON AS I HAULED HIM OUT OF OUR BASEMENT AND POINTED HIM TOWARDS THE FUCKING PHONE! AND THEN - "

"Romano, _please_ - !"

"AND THEN YOU DIDN'T TELL ME WHERE THE FUCK YOU WERE GOING! I DIDN'T HAVE A GOD FUCKING DAMNED CLUE WHERE YOU WERE, _AND I WAS SCARED SHITLESS THAT YOU WERE DEAD_ - !"

Suddenly a suffocating silence overtakes the connection.

"...Romano?" Italy whispers. "Ro - Lovino?"

"I - I didn't _know_," Romano admits shakily. "I didn't h-have a fucking _clue_ where you were, a-and that scared the holy hell out of me." Italy hears a choke, and then the abrasive tone comes back and announces, "So that Potato Bastard had better be pretty God damned grateful you showed up, because if you abandoned me for nothing then I'm going to be even _more_ pissed than I already am!"

Again, silence reigns on the phone line.

"Are you still there?" Romano huffs.

He's there, but he can't find the way to tell Romano how much has changed since the previous day. "...Fratello, I - I - "

"Veneziano, God! Just fucking say what's going on!"

Why can't he admit anything? Why can't he find the words to explain? "Remember Spain," he finally chokes out, "after the failed English invasion?"

Italy prays that Romano understands what he's aiming to convey. Silence. There's so much silence it's suffocating him.

"...No." Romano sounds disbelieving, apparently understanding what his brother is trying to tell him. "You're saying the Potato Bastard is really _that_ hurt? No fucking way!"

"Si! Romano, he - "

"Spain couldn't walk for _weeks!_ He had to be _spoonfed!_ No way! _No fucking way!_"

"It's - " Italy chokes and holds back a full sob. "I-it's worse!"

"No!" Romano insists.

"Germany hasn't walked for _m-months!_ He _can't_ eat b-because he just throws it back up! Romano, h-he's _dying!_"

"He... he - _no_, the shithead can't just _die!_ Who am I supposed to blame everything on if he dies? Who the hell is gonna get you involved in every stupid war on the planet? If he dies, then you'll just wake up crying every single damn night of your life! God, that fucker _better not fucking kick the bucket!_"

Italy isn't sure how he manages it, but Romano somehow makes it sound like he's going to miss Germany if he doesn't survive this ordeal. "B-but right now, he _is_," Italy says shakily.

"Shit! How am - hey, wait - no - !" There's some unexpected scuffling in the background, and Romano yells "Chigi!" once or twice between shouts of indiscernible swear words.

"...Do I hear S-Spain?" Italy asks cautiously.

"Huh? Yeah, that's - no, you ASSHOLE! Stop trying to steal the phone!"

"Can I talk to him?"

"You..." Romano trails off. "Um. Sure... I guess."

"Grazie."

A few seconds later: "Bueno, Italy! What's going on?"

"How - how long have you been there with my brother?"

"Hmm... A few hours. Why?"

Italy takes a deep breath. "Are you ever going to leave?"

"I don't know. Maybe by tomorrow I'll head back home - "

"No. I - I mean... are you ever going to_ leave_?"

"...Pardon?" Spain's cheerful tone dies and is instantly replaced with a low voice that sounds oddly serious. "Italy, what's going on?"

"I need to know. Spain, p-please answer me."

"I don't get it - why would you want to know something like that?"

"Because," he manages, swallowing the uncomfortable lump in his throat, "i-if Romano needs to take over Italy - i-in case something happens to me - I need to know he won't be alone."

Spain doesn't say anything at first; if it were anyone else, Italy would have thought that they'd missed the implications of the sentence, but because it's Spain, who would have asked if that was the case, he realizes that he's seriously thinking the consequences over. It takes him long enough to respond that Italy hears Romano in the background saying, "Oi, bastard! What'd he say to you?"

Finally, the Spaniard replies, very seriously, "I won't. Ever." He draws in a shaky breath, and it takes Italy a moment to realize that he's not the only one worn down by the situation. "Has it really come down to this?"

"Si," Italy mumbles back.

"I... I suppose you want to talk to Lovino again?"

"Per favore."

"Alright then."

The phone fumbles around for a moment before Romano's sharp voice cuts through the line. "What the fuck did you say to him? He looks like a fucking kicked puppy!"

"I... I just..." He's so close to crying again, and he doesn't know what to say, and he doesn't know if he'll have any other chances to say everything that he wants to in that moment.

"You aren't going to do anything stupid for the Potato Bastard, are you?"

He can't get the words out. He can't he can't he -

"Oh, God, you _are! You are!_"

His brother's voice is becoming desperate, and by God he has to say something! "Lovino, I - I - "

"You what? Huh? Why the hell do you keep using my human name - _you never call me by my human name!_ Oh, God Venezi - _Feliciano_ - promise me you're not going to do anything fucking retarded! _Come on!_"

He isn't going to promise anything, especially not over the phone; the last time he'd made a promise, he'd broken it and Germany had ended up...

"I... I... Ti..." He inhales and says the only thing that comes to mind. "Ti amo. _Ti amo, fratello._"

The silence, back again, is almost a physical pain in Italy's hand, like he's somehow gotten it through the phone line.

"..._Oh no you're NOT!_" Romano suddenly shouts. "I KNOW YOU BY NOW, AND YOU YOU ARE _NOT_ ENDING THIS CONVERSATION LIKE THAT - DON'T YOU DARE HANG UP THE PHONE WITHOUT TELLING ME WHAT - "

Italy stares at the floor as he places the phone back on its hook.

* * *

><p>"Hey. You okay?"<p>

Italy looks up in surprise from the bed where Germany still lies, not moving except for his rising and falling chest and subtle expressions of pain crossing his face. "Si, I-I'm fine."

"You don't look so awesome," Prussia says bluntly.

Italy sighs, weary of everyone concerning themselves with his health. "I can handle it."

"You're sure?"

He blinks and looks at Prussia, realizing for once that there's an underlying context in what the albino is asking him. "Listen - I know he's your brother a-and that you want to kill Hitler as much as I do, b-but I need to do this o-on my own."

They'd talked it over long before he'd called Romano: only one of them can go. Prussia had immediately volunteered for the same reasons Italy wanted to do it, with a crazy fire in his eyes and his hands in fists - but then Italy had pointed out that they might fail, and Germany might still die while they'd both be gone. "O-only one of us can go, a-and," he ordered, his voice going low and serious, "_it's going to be me._"

That low-life is _his_ to kill and his alone, because Italy will make him pay dearly, _oh so dearly_ for what he's responsible for doing to Germany and everyone else - but that doesn't mean he isn't scared out of his wits that he won't be with Germany if the end comes, or that he won't ever make it back, or that a million things in-between the two can go wrong. He doesn't want to let Prussia kill the dictator, but he also doesn't want for Prussia to miss the end, whoever "the end" falls to.

"I know you can do it on your own," Prussia says, snapping Italy back into the present. "You're not as awesome as me, but I still believe you can do it."

"I can," Italy says again. "I can, a-and I will."

"I know - but can you do one thing for me?"

"Hmm?"

"Use this."

Prussia reaches to his waistline and pulls out a pistol. A distinct Walther PP, recognizable because of the engraved Prussian eagle on the side. And Italy understands what he wants. "...I will."

"The escort to the front-lines should be ready in the morning. If you're not back here within a week, I'll... I'll assume you're dead."

Prussia isn't looking at him anymore, and for some reason, it feels to Italy as though his fate is sealed.

* * *

><p>"Do y-you remember?"<p>

Italy is, again, sitting next to an unconscious Germany that night, holding his hand again and trying to still tell him that _he's there_. He doesn't know if it's possible, but if he had to judge, his closest friend is still growing physically weaker and closer to fading from existence.

It kills him, but to himself he admits that he's not surprised - nobody can look this terribly sick and not be close to death. Someone of Germany's average height and muscle mass should weigh 180 pounds, at _least_; one doctor he'd talked to earlier says he's currently estimated at about 70 and dropping. Despite entering and exiting the room all day long, talking to Prussia and medical personel and members of the army there in Warsaw, Germany has never stirred or woken up. One particular doctor had said that, whenever Germany did wake up, he didn't seem to understand where he was - as though he was delusional and believing he was dreaming.

"It would be better for him to be back in Krakow," Prussia actually admitted. "But they had to move him here, because the Soviets kept catching German assassins sneaking towards the city. It took a helluva long time to figure out who they were looking for, and finally England grew a brain and started looking around and found..." He'd trailed off. "Well, you know."

Italy knew.

He wipes his eyes. "Do you remember?" he repeats in the dark. "When you had that n-nightmare for the first time with me there? I... I think that was the night you let me in."

Germany doesn't stir, although his face still seems tense with pain that Italy would (_will_) do anything to erase.

"R-remember? You woke up scared of something, breathing hard a-and almost crying, but you wouldn't say what... A-and I didn't know what was going through your mind, but I remember..." He pauses and swallows the lump in his throat. "I remember you let me hold you u-until you fell asleep...

"And then it happened again!" Italy adds a humorless laugh and almost chokes on it. "You told me what it was, that time: th-there were cannons and screams and you were just a soldier running a-and trying to find me. I r-remember! You said th-that you screamed my name every time, and you'd been dreaming o-of it for decades, and that y-you felt so weak for getting upset a-and waking up every time!"

Italy sniffles and tries to get rid of the mucus in his nose and esophagus - he needs continue telling the story, if only for his own sake. "And I didn't know wh-what to do," he admits softly. "I didn't know h-how to make it better, a-and so I just held you again a-and hoped that it w-would go away."

He sighs. "Then there was th-the third time. You told me the same story, a-and I didn't understand. Remember? I - I thought there was something very unsettling a-about it. You knew it s-so well, inside a-and out, that it made me wonder if it wasn't really a nightmare. I - I wondered if it was a memory. But - but that didn't make sense, because y-you'd only known me f-for thirty years, a-and you'd been having that dream for so much longer, a-and by the time you ever went to w-war, no one used cannons anymore! I - I didn't understand what it meant...

"But - but then - remember? R-remember? Th-the fifth time? You - " Italy chokes and grasps the bony hand. " - you asked me a-about a nation n-named - named the _Holy Roman E-Empire_ - a-and - and I started to put the p-pieces t-together a-and - and I didn't know wh-_what_ to tell you."

The thin sheets on the bed are slowly turning wet.

"A-and the sixth time..." He inhales, shakily. "Th-the sixth time I - I gave you your a-answer." He holds the hand a little tighter yet, whispering softly, "I t-told you that it didn't matter, b-because - because h-he was in the past, a-and _you_ were a-all that mattered to me a-anymore - a-and - and you were so unsure! You didn't know what I w-was saying, a-and I - and I said a little m-more boldly that i-it didn't matter who y-you _were_ o-or who you'd e-ever become, b-because I - because - because I..."

Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe.

"I-it doesn't matter," he shakily admits, "_b-because I love you j-just the same._"

Saying aloud is almost too much, but he has more to finish reciting the story, so he forces his emotions to cooperate for just a little bit longer and asks the comatose nation, "R-remember what happened then? I - I kissed you. A-and it took you a moment to respond, b-but then you kissed back and - and i-it became the happiest moment of my _l-life_. Remember? D-do you remember?"

...So far they've come...

He doesn't know if Germany was the Holy Roman Empire or not; he would never have any way of confirming it or rejecting it, so there is no real reason for him to really wonder. But still - he wonders, at times, when he doesn't know what else to think about - and yet, he really doesn't see how it would matter. If it wasn't true, then the Holy Roman Empire really was dead - and if it was true, then Germany didn't remember, and he might as well be dead anyway. It doesn't matter. Italy loves them both.

"I hope..." He draws a shaky breath. "L-Ludwig, I hope that you think of me the s-same way."

He squeezes Germany's limp hand.

"No matter w-what I turn into or what happens to me, I-I hope you still love me."

He's said what he needs to; yet, at the same time, it feels incomplete. With tears still running down his face, and with little hitches in his breathing, he shifts in the dark and presses his lips to Germany's. The blonde still doesn't move, and Italy allows the words to roll off his tongue.

"_Please... f-forgive me for what I'm going to do for you._"

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

Spain and Romano were referring to the Armada's invasion of England, again.

**Additional Author's Notes**

Some of you were probably expecting Hitler to die in this chapter; I thought a few things needed to be addressed in the plotline before the story moved to that point.

Review?


	8. alive

XXX

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane<strong>

_Do you really want me dead_  
><em>or alive <em>

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>April 1945 <strong>

* * *

><p>It takes Italy and the soldier escorting him a little less than three days to get to the front-lines.<p>

They drive the entire journey, stopping only to sleep for a few hours, and the both of them are silent. Italy can't help but remember how different it was to travel with Schnabel, who at least tried wholeheartedly to keep things comfortable between them; this man says nothing unless Italy speaks first. But he doesn't want to speak, because he wants to think about what he's going to do.

How should he kill a demon in human form?

Prussia wants him to use his gun, and maybe he will at the end, but he's planning to do more than just shoot Hitler when it comes down to it - for all the pain and hell he's gone through, the least he can do is return the favor. Some methods of death are simply out of the question: there won't be time for starvation, drowning probably won't be an option, and even being a nation-tan with unreal strength doesn't guarantee Italy would be able to do something as physically testing as pulling him apart by his limbs. Yes, shooting would get the job done, but he doesn't think it's enough retribution or enough fun, and so he's trying to -

Fun?

_Fun?_

Italy goes deathly still. Did he just think of killing someone as possibly being - no! He didn't! Killing couldn't _possibly_ be considered entertaining!

But then, the minute he thinks of it, he wonders if that's right. He's heard of killing men being described as a game before; nations have bragged about it in the past, and he knows Spain and England and France and Japan and even Austria and _Hungary_ have admitted behind closed doors, when they think he hasn't been listening, that _something_ about killing is a downright sport. He almost walked in on Prussia, once, saying that he just thought of war as target practice. Within the past few decades alone, Russia has become a maniacal killing machine during the World Wars. And by God, his grandfather thought there was nothing better than waging a deathly battle! It sickens him, but maybe they have the right idea?

...How would his grandfather kill a devil who has done him such a grievous wrong? How would he inflict the most pain on a body? How would he make a monster suffer? He'd seen the methods as a child, and he knew them inside and out...

As he looks at it from that perspective, Italy's stomach coils into a knot, and his eyes narrow with realization and anger.

* * *

><p>"We're here," the soldier says with quiet words. "Command doesn't want us to get any closer to the front from here... You should eat first."<p>

Italy hears the sound of explosions and death in the looming distance, and he knows his doomsday is coming and that time is already running far, far too short. He halfway listens to the soldier's advice and takes only a little brown bread, a canteen of watered-down wine, two guns, a small knife, and a rosary with him as he sneaks across the territories. He's memorized the map, and so he leaves it behind like his heart in Warsaw and his sanity at the border.

He stops and sleeps, once, for only a few fleeting hours at night, alongside an abandoned railroad track, with thin ties and even thinner spikes. He dreams of his own death, and when he wakes up he grabs for the rosary and thanks God that Germany won't be there to see it if it happens.

(When it happens.)

He can't help but wonder: how will Hitler react to facing death? It plays out as multiple scenarios in his head - in one he cries and screams against his assassin like a banshee, while in another he fights Italy to the end of his predetermined fate. In all the scenarios, Italy wins.

For the first time in a long time, Germany is not on his conscience. The image of the skeleton he knows still haunts him, but ever since his mind was made up and he began to act, he has no energy to dwell on it... It's as though that crying Italy has disappeared, and now he just moves and runs and does what he has to in order to finish what's been started.

Like the eye of a storm, he's calm now. But it will get worse. The second half of the hurricane, as it is said, always gets worse.

* * *

><p>Three days after leaving the remains of Warsaw, he's in Berlin.<p>

Unlike Warsaw, which had already lost hope for survival and all but died, the German capital is fighting fiercely. The city is going to lose - Italy is quite certain of that fact - because the Allied cannons are too strong and there are too many of their own citizens going against them, but as it stands the Axis is giving the invaders a challenge.

Italy has to duck to the ground countless times when a shell nearly explodes on top of him, and one gets so close to killing him that he almost wets himself with a scream. Any soldiers he come across simply run past in bloodstained uniforms and pay him no heed, intent on either hurrying to their posts or away from them - whichever is their bigger priority. Either way, Italy doesn't blame them.

* * *

><p>Near the Foreign Offices, as the main building is called, there is a passage leading to two different bunkers, buried underground. The first is called the Vorbunker, he's heard, and at the time it's probably occupied; the second is the Führerbunker, which he <em>knows<em> is occupied by the Führer himself by this point in the war. He'd been there, once, when it was under construction, and he remembers it well enough that he knows how to sneak through the Vorbunker and into the bedroom of the monster. He's through the door, down the stairs, across an office, and - has he moved at all? - how is he already there? -

Italy can't believe his eyes.

_He's in bed. _

He's _there_, right next to the dictator, close enough to hear his steady breathing and kill him on the spot, and the bastard is _sound asleep_, as though he has no guilty conscience and nothing of great weight on his mind! Italy hasn't slept well for years, worrying about himself and everyone else, and now here Hitler is peacefully resting! It isn't supposed to go like this - it never ought to!

"Sir." He disturbs the sleeper with a shake. "Sir."

"Mmm... What?"

He answered - Hitler actually answered - oh Dio, he sounded sleepy - _why can't Italy seem to think? _"There's a matter of importance that I need to discus with you, sir." He sounds ridiculous, and he knows it; even as long as he stayed with Germany and members of the army, everything he's saying is utter bullshit and probably goes against every rule of protocol established.

Apparently, though, this is not a concern of the dictator's. "Very well. What?"

He sounds... grumpy. Then again, wouldn't anyone? "I - I would like to tell you in the tunnel, sir."

"This had better be worth my time." And - oh holy mother of - he's getting out of bed and - and Italy doesn't know what to do - he throws on an overcoat and a pair of pants over his boxers and - oh God, Italy can't react to anything now that the moment is so close! He grabs a candlestick and uses a match to light it. "To the passage, then."

For the first time, Italy looks at the face in the flickering light - and he looks away just as quickly. "Ve, r-right!"

He nearly-but-doesn't-quite bolt out of fear, and his conscious effort to slow down is the first purposeful thing he feels like he's done since crossing the front lines. He's shaking, and he's going to kill a horrible thing, and now he can't believe it and is beginning to wonder if he really has the backbone to go through with it and -

"Well." They're standing in the tunnel now, and Italy feels terrified, hearing that voice with only a candle to illuminate their cold surroundings. "What is it that you have to tell me?"

He's scared to death! He can't do this anymore he can't he can't he can't he can't! "We found Ludwig Beilschmidt, and... and he's dead," he says with as much monotone as he can manage. Perhaps, if he says it like a mantra, it will inspire him to act, even if it isn't quite the truth.

"Good."

Italy's breathing stops.

"I had hoped that he would die eventually," that voice says, oozing nonchalance and pleasant surprise. "He didn't deserve to live, that fucking fag."

Time sinks.

Compared to whatever Italy had been expecting to hear, what is said is a hundred times more unexpected, more smug, and more cold - and it is, absolutely, a million times more _infuriating_. The cold, jittery feeling that had flooded his veins before melds away in an instant, replaced instead by a boiling anger and an alarming need for revenge; in an instant, Italy remembers with absolute clarity the moment France had looked him in the eyes and had foolishly, _oh so foolishly_ said that the Holy Roman Empire was dead, because this was the feeling that had overtaken him then. But this time around, Hitler is going to completely lose - he won't escape this fury due to a miraculously long life-span like Italy's older brother did. He will strip him down to the nothing that this bastard is.

_HedeservesthisandI'mtheluckyonewhogetstodoit._

And the first thing to go - that tongue. Italy will never, _ever_ listen to that sick voice cursing his world again outside of his nightmares if he has any power over the matter. And before he can really comprehend his own actions, he's drawn the knife from his pocket and knocked the other against the concrete wall and swiped and - oh Dio he's _actually done it_. There's a sanguine piece of flesh on the floor, and the candle is still lit but lying somewhere in the corner, and Hitler is on his knees spitting out blood, and by God! - Italy's hands are soaked, or at least they feel soaked, and he hasn't even killed him yet! What now, what now?

_Notafagnotafagnotafag_ -

Italy feels around in his pocket before his eyes narrow and he grasps the two railroad spikes he'd taken a few days ago from the tracks where he'd slept, out of spite. He'd had a dream that night and had been so sure, then, that he was going to end up using them to kill himself - but now he's discovered their true purpose. The chamber is practically soundproof from the thick concrete walls, after all; even those walls will have no power to stop him because his nation is stronger than them.

With that being decided, he roughly grabs Hitler's wrist and forces the fallen dictator off the ground as he lifts it above both their heads and presses it to the wall, and before his blood cools or his intentions change, he takes the thin spike and drives it through in a single stroke.

_Neveragainwillhehurtus. Nevereveragain_ -

Things... become a bit rushed for him after that. By the time his head stops pounding so much out of fury and his vision comes back to him in part - somehow, he never was quite conscious of the tears sliding down his face - both the nails have been pounded into the thick concrete by Italy's own stained hands, and in the near-dark it looks as though the drippings from the two holes are black - no, the three holes, because even as he hangs, he is coughing and choking on his own blood and allowing it to run down his chin.

_Neveragain. Never, ever again._

"Well." Italy's own voice mocks the both of them; its tenor is dripping with a mixture of blood and tears. He brings his hand forward and tilts that chin at an angle so he can look directly at the face it belongs to. Except - eyes.

Oh_ God_, the eyes -

- and Italy steps away.

_Nevernevernever. Never._

"I - I should let you hang."

It's not mocking anymore; something has broken. Some part of the fire has gone out, leaving the ashes and a horrifying skeleton of what has already been done beyond repair. But maybe it's not too late - there was something else - Prussia's gun. "I _should_ l-let you h-hang," he whispers. "B-but I can't anymore. Oh, oh _Jesus_, I - God, I can't!"

_Never. Never?_

He pulls the Walther out, cocks it, aims, and fires.

_(Never?)_

_..._

Mercifully, the candle blows out.

* * *

><p><strong>May 1945 <strong>

* * *

><p>Italy wakes up next to a river bank and wonders, for perhaps the hundredth time, if he's still dreaming.<p>

How long has he been here? How long is he going to procrastinate his return? He doesn't know where he is, but he's quite sure that it's safe. The thunderous storming of the gunfire has died down long ago; Berlin has resigned itself to armistice, it seems. Wherever the physical war is, it certainly is not along these peaceful waters of a metaphorical Rubicon.

Biting his lip, he stares at the swirling current and tries to ignore the throbbing in his palms. He can still remember his journey out of the city, running, sprinting, flying through streets and roads and dirt paths and finally to this bank where he collapsed and washed his hands. Whenever he chances to look at them, though, he still sees the red that had stained them so deeply. He can barely stand to look at his uniform, either - the horrid thing is soaked and spattered with drying crimson, and no matter how many times he takes it off to wash the fabric in the cold water, the faded specks and spots refuse to completely go away. But in a way, glancing at his hands is worse, because he knows that the current feelings he has of the blood dripping, dripping, dripping is all a trick of his conscience now.

He feels faint, so he leans backward and lies against the rough specks of rock that form a small, natural beach along the bank. It's because he hasn't eaten - he hasn't eaten anything since the bread he took over the boundary. And he hasn't drunk since he had the - what has he even had to drink recently? Blood, he decides morbidly. He's drunk enough blood to satisfy his thirst for centuries to come, until he dies and his nation rots away. He hasn't touched the river's water, and when he decides that his need for hunger is too great he can cross the river and pick an apple or two from a branch he sees hanging over the opposite bank. It's as though he's fasting as atonement - but he has no desire to think of the stains again.

Italy closes his eyes. His mind wanders, under the shade of the trees nearby, and he wonders if now is too late to commit suicide. It's hard to ignore his dreams of late - he's met his demise in every one of them, and he hears those words "_fucking fag_" and sees those eyes that penetrated his soul and feels his heart becoming cold as his violent shaking spreads from his hands and he screams himself awake. It terrifies him; he wants to end it all.

Suddenly, his right hand stops aching. He opens an eyelid out of curiosity and sees a patch of sunlight breaking through the leaves and resting upon his palm, the dust particles forming a curious apparition caressing his skin.

He blinks. "Ve...?"

Something, or _someone_, is there - he feels it. But who would be -

Germany.

Italy sits straight up. "Germany? _Ludwig?_"

He - no, he can't be there! Italy might have condemned himself to dying, but he did it so that Germany would live! He can't be dead! That can't be his presence Italy feels!

But there's only one way to know. Italy scrambles to his feet and darts blindly into the river. "Ve!" he shrieks. It's colder than he remembers, and apparently it's deeper than he'd originally thought; the calm surface hides a strong current, too, and - even though the banks are only a hundred feet apart - his full body and head are dragged underwater three times before he makes it to the shallow edge of the other bank. His hurried arrival startles a flock of morning doves, which abandon their perches in the trees and fly to the horizon.

Italy takes no notice; instead, he grabs an apple from a branch and runs to the east.

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

Alright, this is going to be long, since I purposely saved all the notes on Hitler's personal life for this chapter.

Sometime in early 1945, Adolf Hitler began to realize that the Axis was going to lose the war. As a result, he basically made the executive decision that Germany had forfeited its (his?) right to exist as a nation because of their military failures, and so he basically began to destroy the infrastructure of the country - it can also be rationally derived that Germany/Ludwig could certainly have assassins coming after him in Hetalia canon, hence Prussia's comment in the last chapter.

Hitler spent his last ten days (April 20-30, 1945) completely underground in his bunker, and from what I've read it sounds like he was halfway between despairing/giving up and between trying to kill a ton of Allied soldiers with his own before being captured. Unfortunately - or fortunately, depending on your outlook - a lot of his commanders seemed to think he was going a little crazy, and several of them ignored his orders (hence the main idea that Germany/Ludwig isn't healing because he's being, somewhat literally, torn apart from within). On April 29, Hitler married his mistress, who was also living in the bunker; that same day, he also wrote and signed his last will and testament.

This is where fanfiction might deviate from history a bit. Historians are quite certain that Hitler committed suicide with his new Mrs. on April 30 - she poisoned herself, and he shot himself in the head with a Walther PPK - and that their bodies were taken out of the bunker and burned above ground... except, for whatever reason, nobody is actually sure what happened to their remains. It is largely indisputable _how_ they died, however - hence why this is fanfiction, and why I'm putting all of this in notes.

The Führerbunker and Vorbunker existed; my descriptions of the layouts come from several architectural maps of the complex I found online. I'm not going to say that my descriptions are 100% accurate because nobody is 100% sure what they were like before they were bombed in, but I honestly tried to make it seem like a reasonable attempt at accuracy.

**Additional Author's Notes**

Irony: this chapter is titled "alive," and it wasn't even done intentionally.

That symbolism I mentioned at one point - remember that note? - comes into its own here. (You can tell which chapters I wrote in the summer and which ones I wrote after starting school again. That's a little depressing.)


	9. to

XXX

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane<strong>

_Do you really want me dead_  
><em>or alive to <em>

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>May 1945<strong>

* * *

><p>When Italy finally comes across a camp of Soviet soldiers, it starts a whirlwind of activity that he simply can't keep up with. He remembers that they give him pasta, and that they radio back to Warsaw in an excited language that he doesn't even try to interpret, and that he's then sitting in the backseat of a car. He must fall asleep, because when he wakes up again he's seeing the skeleton of Warsaw once more.<p>

And then Romano is yelling at him. It's so surreal - he doesn't even remember walking into a building. And what's he saying? "You fucking idiot - y-you shouldn't have fucking run out a-and scared the shit outta me like that!" Is he crying? Romano is actually crying? And what is he doing in Warsaw? Was his brother really so worried about him that...?

"You're so God damn s-stupid! W-what the hell made you th-think that - that - "

Spain approaches the southern Italian (Spain is there, too?) and puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Lovi. It's okay..."

And then the scene melts away, and Italy wakes up with his head lying on a rough blanket. He blinks and glances up and sees Prussia standing there, looking down at him with a peculiar mixture of weariness and jealousy and absolute thankfulness.

"Hey," the albino quietly says, with a hint of dryness. "Didja hear the awesome news? Hitler's dead. The war is over."

Italy closes his eyes again and tries to not think about it. "Ve," he says noncommittally. "How... How's Germany?" Before Prussia answers, he realizes that he's holding a skeletal hand in his own; with a jerk, he lifts his head up and sees -

He's... he's _sleeping_. He _could_ be dead, but instead he's sleeping. He is, isn't he? Italy thinks he sees Germany's chest rising and falling, but maybe it's his imagination. Why hasn't Prussia answered? "Gilbert?" Italy says, strangling on the air in his own windpipe. "Please! Tell me he's not..."

Prussia sniffs. Italy's heart is suspended.

"My brother," he answers carefully, his eyes brimming, "is gaining weight. You did it. God _damn_ the odds, you did it."

* * *

><p>It's true, certainly, but there's such a long way to go.<p>

Germany's alive, and since he's aware of the circumstances Italy knows that he should feel absolutely ecstatic and overjoyed. But that isn't the way it turns out at all; instead, once he's been thoroughly chewed out by Romano (or chewed out _again_, rather - he doesn't recall the first time at all) and informed of the current medical situation by Prussia, he becomes even more exhausted and sleeps for a full twelve hours in the wooden chair next to Germany's bed. It's nowhere near comfortable, but he still picks that spot over anywhere else in the world; maybe it's illogical thinking on his part, but some internal sense of guilt makes him feel like he deserves to be uncomfortable anyway.

Germany doesn't actually wake up for the first twenty-four hours after Italy arrives. Prussia says that the doctors are expecting him to sleep for huge lengths of time until he is back to health - which is still many months away, by the looks of things - and despite the underlying acerbic tones in the explanation, Italy figures that it's for the best. It's obvious that Germany's waking hours aren't the most comfortable for him, either... and that's what breaks Italy's heart the most.

He's still a skeleton. A silent skeleton. For the first week, he only communicates by nodding and shaking his head. _Yes_, he hears, _Yes_, he understands, _Yes_, he knows what happened to him. _No_, he isn't in pain.

(_Yes, he is, and they all know it._)

No matter how much the prominence of his bones is dying away, no matter how much sustenance he manages to digest, no matter how much the doctors say he's improving - the close calls are so, so awful beyond words. The third night, Italy wakes up and discovers that Germany is coughing up blood, and it sends everyone (even Romano, who had stayed with Spain for a few more days) into a frenzy at three in the morning. The seventh day since Italy's return, he and Prussia have to literally _beg_ the doctors to not amputate his feet, which have poor circulation and are almost dead pieces of flesh in themselves. And slowly, Germany's right arm begins to heal from whatever sickening abuse it had gone through - but in the process it begins oozing pus and causing the blonde obvious pain, and Italy endures many sleepless nights whispering comforts that quickly lose their meaning into Germany's ear. The only thing keeping him sane then is his concentration on gripping Germany's left hand tightly and praying that by some miracle he will take the pain by osmosis; those nights, it's hard to tell who's crying harder.

"Feli... Don't wake me."

It's the evening of the ninth day, and Italy is - was - absentmindedly wondering if it's hurting his health that he's only been digesting bread and wine and apples lately; instead, his head jerks up. "Ve? - _Germany?_ Germany, you spoke!"

"Promise... Never wake me." His voice is very hoarse and slightly wavering, but he's definitely talking.

The words sink in, and Italy's eyes widen and he smiles just a little for the first time in days. "D-don't wake you? But ve - Ludwig, you _are_ awake!" He understands that maybe - maybe it seems too good to the German that Italy is actually there, or - or that it might seem too good to be true that he's not being tortured anymore, or that -

But Germany's skeleton nods, slowly, _painfully_, and his empty eyes get the message across completely. "Promise. _Promise_."

(_Don't ever wake me... just let me go._)

* * *

><p>Italy doesn't consider himself terribly smart. Under great pressure, especially lately, he's relatively speedy at coming up with semi-decent plans, but usually he needs time to figure out some of the hidden context in a situation that most other nations can spot almost instantly. But that's not the case at the moment; now, he leaves the room almost immediately, having paled considerably. It's the first time he's ever left Germany's side while he's known the blonde is awake. And, as soon as he makes it to the bathroom on the floor above - where he's almost certain he won't be disturbed - he buries his head in his hands and hyperventilates.<p>

_How?_ How could Germany think that way? How is Italy supposed to just let that happen? _How?_ It's awful, and the idea itself is already killing not just one but the both of them - and another thought hits him like a brick to the head. Was he right? Had Italy been _right_ to save Germany's life? Had he been right in committing such a transgression and sacrificing his own innocence in the world for someone who _didn't even want to live?_

Because now, since he's alone with his thoughts for the first time in days, he realizes exactly what he's done. He's shaking as he remembers the eyes in that dark tunnel, and he stares at the holes practically forming in his hands and feels the nails now more than ever, and he knows that he's going completely insane, and he has to do _something_ about it! The sink - maybe that would help - he hurriedly turns on the faucet and runs water over his shaking palms, and he prays so very very very hard that the feeling of dripping blood will go away, but he's far too gone and that's all he feels now, and whether it's his own blood or Germany's or Hitler's or maybe just the blood of every sin ever committed he doesn't know and oh _God_ now it's filling up his lungs and setting him on fire and maybe he screams and now he's digging through his pockets for a release and finding the weapon that he'd known from the start would be the death of him and trying to get the damn thing to work -

And then, a hand covers his.

"What. The fuck. Do you think. You're _doing_," Prussia says.

Italy blinks, slowly and purposefully, and his gaze automatically focuses on the mirror. Why is he holding a gun? - why is he shaking so badly? - _why was he stopped?_ - why why why -

He sees his own eyes. They're dull, they're so red he looks drugged, they've got huge circles around them. It's the first time he's really seen himself up close for at least three weeks. But no matter how awful his eyes may appear, the life is still filling them - the light hasn't been extinguished yet.

And of all things, it's that thought that breaks him.

* * *

><p>Screaming.<p>

Wailing.

Sobbing.

* * *

><p>"It's not easy, is it?" When did Prussia put his arms around him? "Damn, Italy... <em>Damn<em>."

For a while, Italy can't say anything; he doesn't have the breath or the ability to stop crying long enough to form the words. He really hates it, too, because he knows already that Germany will never see this side of him the way Prussia will. He's going crazy - and the minute he thinks that, he realizes that he needs to speak while he's still sane enough to know what to say.

"I-it was the eyes," he finally manages. Prussia says nothing, and he continues, "I w-was going to m-make him suffer - I - I h-had it all planned out, a-and I was sure th-that - " he hiccups, " - that _I_ w-was g-going to hurt_ him_ w-worse than _he_ h-had hurt _us_, a-and I was so _ready_ to d-do it, b-but - _ve!_ - then I made a m-mistake and l-looked him in the e-eyes - because - b-because then I saw th-that he w-_wasn't_ j-just a name on a paper b-because he had eyes that looked s-so much like mine, e-except he j-just gave up a-and let me kill the l-light - "

"Hey. It's done now. He's _dead_, Italy - "

"_I thought he would be a monster!_" Italy's voice has turned into a shrill wail. "I th-thought he w-would be something a-awful from a dream, a-and instead he w-was just a _man w-who gave up a-and let me take a-away his life!_ And - and I would n-never kill j-just a man, b-but by then it w-was too late!"

"Hey, I get it. Italy - Gott, _listen_ for just a second - "

"You said once i-it was a sport!"

At that, Prussia looks downright lost. "I did _what_?"

"K-killing people." He hiccups again and wipes his eyes, although the gesture is futile because he's still drenching himself with tears. "Y-you called it a sport, once, w-when you didn't know I w-was listening."

The albino blinks, and his face falls. "Gott, _killing_ might be a sport, but not what you did."

"W-what? _Ve?_"

"_Killing_," Prussia repeats. "_Killing_ someone means that you shoot a guy out of a tree, or throw a grenade at some poor bastard, or have a bomb dropped on a city - "

"W-what did _I_ do then?" he whispers.

Prussia opens his mouth, as if to reveal the answer, but bites his lip at the last second instead. "You did something... a hell of a lot harder."

_Murder._

Italy doesn't know where the thought came from, but he's sure in that instant that _murder_ is what Prussia is referring to. "_Oh Dio_," he gasps. "I - oh, _God_, I - I - "

"Hey, Italy! Don't lose me here! It takes a fuck-ton more balls to do what you did - you knew the guy's name, you looked him in the face, and, hell, you probably had a God damn conversation with him! - "

(_"He didn't deserve to live, that fucking fag."_)

" - And trust me, Italy, my brother will understand - "

"NO!" His outburst shocks them both into silence for a moment, and, shaking, he explains, "Germany can't _e-ever_ know!"

"Why the hell not? Dammit all, this is obviously tearing you apart! - "

"_No_," he repeats more quietly. "I m-might be going crazy, but I w-won't take him down w-with me no matter what he says to try and let him - "

"No matter what he - _he spoke_?" Prussia's tone becomes dangerously dark. "What did he tell you?"

Italy doesn't say; he's crying too hard again, and he buries his head in Prussia's shoulder because he doesn't know what else to do.

"Damn, Italy - jeez, your hands are shaking - okay. Okay, you're awesome enough that I won't ever tell him - wait, what the fuck did you mean when you said you _aren't taking him with you_? Because - you are _not_ - " Prussia struggles for the right words, and finally his voice cracks again as he firmly orders, "Fucking _dammit_, you are the _only reason_ he's alive right now and you are _not going to die on either of us_!" He holds Italy just a little tighter. "If you die, then I _guarantee_ that he's following you, and I'm following him - and God - think about _Romano_! What's _he_ going to do?"

He's not completely crazy yet. He's not he's not he's not..."S-stop trying to make me feel guilty," he pleads.

"This isn't about you feeling _guilty_! This is about the hell Ludwig has gone through for you!"

Italy's breath hitches. "W-what do you know about it? I-I mean, maybe d-dying is easier than staying here! We m-might not _all_ be going to hell! What we've done - o-or what Germany's done - c-can't possibly be that bad!"

"...You think we're going to heaven? You actually think that _we_ might be..."

To his surprise, Prussia _laughs_, hollowly. The sound actually frightens Italy for a moment. "V-ve?"

"You know what I think?" he says, his voice low. "You've got it backwards: you're worried about who gets to go to heaven and who gets shut out, but I figured it out a long time ago. The way our existence is, we shoulder all the sins of our citizens - it doesn't matter what _you_ might have done or what _you_ haven't done... because when we die, _all_ nations go to hell."

* * *

><p><strong>June 1945<strong>

* * *

><p>Eventually, a day comes along where Italy does leave Germany's side for a while. He makes a trip down to Krakow to try and find the doctor he'd talked to so many months before, just to let him know that Germany is fine and that he's grateful beyond words. Even as a nation, he has no idea what he can do for such a saint - but in the end, it doesn't matter. When he arrives, he discovers that the recovering survivors are still bound to the building by a mutual sense of loss, and he's told that hardly any of them had left - but even so, Italy can't find the man he's looking for. Chances were that he'd died many months ago.<p>

Italy realized afterward that he'd never even known his name.

* * *

><p><strong>July 1945<strong>

* * *

><p>A few weeks later, Poland and Lithuania arrive in the city. They're both thin but, overall, in decent shape; they've come to talk politics. Most of it flies right over Italy's head because he can't concentrate, but he manages to understand that the Russian government is looming above their heads and looking to take territory. A conference of sorts has been going on that summer, and the geography of Europe - especially Germany - rested in its hands. For once, he's downright frustrated with the idea of bargaining: he thinks that if they would work to make a final decision sooner, Germany would likely have started healing faster, and then they could all finally get some sleep at night.<p>

"Damn, Ita, like, he's looking pretty bad."

Italy doesn't even bother responding because of how completely obvious Poland's statement is. Germany, however, does. "I'm not deaf," he says bluntly, albeit with a little bit of a rough edge to his voice. He doesn't speak often, but when he does it's always very concise and not very great in volume. Italy tries his best, but every once in a while he can't help but wince when he hears how weak Germany sounds.

Poland ignores him. "I mean, Prussia was being an ass and not telling me, like, all the stuff that was wrong, but you're nice and totally willing to spill, right?"

He just shakes his head in response. "No," he whispers.

A huff. "Yeah, well, either he's a wuss or I got off really easy - but you know, I totally don't think that what I had to live through was easy..."

Germany is looking off to the other side of the room, and for the millionth time Italy wishes he could get into the blonde's head. It's becoming almost intolerable that he never knows what Germany is aware of and what he doesn't notice; at the moment, he's getting the impression that his friend isn't exactly all there to hear Poland complaining. Maybe that's just as well, because Poland doesn't seem to be saying anything important right now anyway.

"...So then, I said to those sonsofbitches that, you know, I wasn't a _girl_, and that they were going to rot in hell for ruining my outfit..."

No, definitely not important. Italy runs his thumb up and down the back of Germany's hand, feeling rough scabs along the skin and wishing, wishing so hard, that he could have done something about all of it - or any of it - sooner than he did.

" - And would you seriously even _think_ that they made me do that? 'Cause I told that officer that I wasn't going to put up with any of his bullshit, and - "

"Poland."

Three heads turn toward the doorway to see Lithuania standing there. Awkwardly, he coughs at the sudden attention. "Uh, Feliks... I think maybe it's time to go and leave the two of them alone for a bit."

"But I just got here!"

"_Feliks_." Italy hadn't had any idea that Lithuania could actually command Poland around, but apparently he'd been wrong. "I hear that Prussia's gloating about something. You'd better go and put him in his place."

Poland snorts to himself and hesitates, but in the end he decides to take the bait; he rushes out of the room with an enthusiasm that hasn't been seen in that building in probably several years.

"Energetic, isn't he?" Lithuania comments dryly. He pulls up a second chair next to Italy and rests his elbows on his thighs. "I... um..." He pauses for a moment; he sighs. "Mr. Germany... I'd like to thank you."

The skeleton's head turns a bit, just enough to show he's listening.

Lithuania clears his throat. "I, uh, I know that Poland didn't exactly appreciate your government, but I know that it wasn't completely your fault and that you... well, you tried to stop some of it, and I don't think he gives you enough credit, because I don't think he even realizes that you... well." His voice wavers a bit near the end, and he repeats again, "Thanks."

Italy's heart skips a beat. "Ve?" slips out.

Germany turns his head away.

"...Is he still listening to me?" Lithuania asks, confused.

"Ve, I don't... I don't think so." There'd been something a - a little too personal in the Lithuanian's gratitude. "What did you mean by... that?"

He purses his lips and shifts his eyes. There's an awkward pause. "Feliks..." Lithuania sighs. "Feliks worked in a camp for a year, after he was captured in the ghetto here - but then he was seized in the night and sneaked across the Russian front by some unidentified soldier from the capital. He never figured out who was the force behind it, but Prussia mentioned how you'd gotten out of Berlin in 1943... I think you can piece it together."

So Lithuania means to tell him that... oh God - oh - _oh!_ -

"He went through hell for a lot of people," Lithuania mutters. "I wish I could repay him, somehow..."

Italy's thankful Germany's eyes are closed now - hopefully he will stay unaware that Italy is crying again.

* * *

><p>Maybe Lithuania was right - hell was where they'd been. Maybe Prussia was right - hell is where they're going. Maybe Italy's wrong, but he's becoming more sure every day that hell is where he is right now.<p>

The guns had both been taken from him, by Prussia, because the albino says he doesn't want to risk having another episode where Italy nearly commits suicide. Even so, he catches himself rolling bullets between his fingers every once in a while and replaying the same conversation over and over again in his mind.

"Veneziano - ?"

"I love him. I _love_ him..."

He closes his eyes and keeps asking why Germany's phone had been off the hook.

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

In July and early August of 1945, once things had calmed down in Europe and the Axis had surrendered, the Potsdam Conference was held in Germany to, in short, decide how they were to administer punishment for causing the war and the Holocaust. I know that Truman, Stalin, and Attlee (the UK's Prime Minister) attended and more or less ended up turning the division of Germany into a power struggle, but otherwise I'm a little fuzzy on the details (this chapter was written quite a while ago, and I've forgotten pieces of the exact history since then).

The bit of Poland's rant about being mistaken for a _girl_ - heaven forbid - was actually put in there for a reason. Sometime in 1939, Hitler was credited with saying something similar to, "Poland is in the position in which I want her." That certainly wasn't funny at the time, but in a different context...

Another note about Poland: that nation in general, apparently gave up the fight quickly in 1939 after being invaded by the Nazis - except for one section of the capital, which continued to fight against Nazi occupation for _at least a year_ before finally succumbing. I got a little lazy in researching it, but my understanding is that it was an incredible feat of resistance. (And really: he might not always come to mind as a fighter, but Feliks was _so_ there to kick some butt.)

**Additional Author's Notes**

Of course this isn't over. We aren't even close.


	10. torture

XXX

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane<strong>

_Do you really want me dead _  
><em>or alive to torture<em>

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>July 1945<strong>

* * *

><p>It's just his luck, really - the moment he thinks that rock bottom is in sight, the worst happens.<p>

Italy had been asleep - next to Germany, of course - and Poland and Lithuania had been staying in the room next door, and the whole rest of the town had been quiet. Until, that is, Prussia wakes him by violently shaking his shoulder and whispering urgently in his ear. "Damn damn damn damn _damn_! Italy, get your ass up!"

"Mmm... ve?" He yawns, sleepily, and glances up at Prussia before frowning. Are they in danger?... but the war is over, isn't it? "What's the matter?"

"Those communist bastards are coming, and - _shit_!"

Italy blinks for a moment as Prussia curses and begins running around the room. Communists? Meaning - Russia! Lithuania had warned him about Russia, but he hadn't listened, and now...! Now Italy is sitting straight up, and although he hasn't turned around he thinks he hears Poland and Lithuania appearing in the doorway behind them. "Prussia? How do you know that?"

"The bastards aren't exactly hiding - they radioed in from Bialystok and fucking _taunted_ us to run."

"I - I thought the Soviets weren't supposed to mess with other countries anymore!" Italy exclaims.

"Good thought." Prussia is busy sifting through the drawer of the bedside table. "They aren't supposed to do anything to a nation's land, citizens, or whatever governing _crap_ is going on right now in our territories. It's a _human_ treaty!"

"Omigod!" Italy turns and sees Poland covering his mouth with his hands.

Italy frowns. "Ve, what does that mean?"

"It means," Lithuania says, shaking, "that they're coming for _us_."

He squeaks. "For - for us?" Trying to catch the personifications is a low, dirty move. To specifically target them is, to a degree, to gain control of the land, the people, and the government they represent. They'd become bargaining tools or hostages or, at worst, be killed and absorbed into other countries -

"I don't wanna be under Russia's control!" Poland shrieks.

Italy pinches himself then, just to make sure he's awake. He is. "Wh-what do we do?"

"We, like, get the hell out of the city!" Poland says, dashing over to the window and glancing outside. "I don't see anything weird..."

"They'll get here in about half an hour. _Fuck!_" Prussia finishes his search and slams the drawer shut. "Lithuania, Poland: our best shot at getting out of here is to make it look like we're Soviets from a distance. There are some Ruskie uniforms in my closet - get them now."

Poland, always one to hold a grudge, narrows his eyes and looks like he's about to retort, but Lithuania abruptly pulls on his arm. "Prussia's right," he says firmly. The Pole looks ready to argue, but with one quick glance backward, Lithuania drags him out.

"Okay, that should buy the two of us a little time."

Italy blinks at Prussia, who crosses the room in only a few strides and is suddenly standing face-to-face with him. "Ve, time? Time for... what?"

The albino swallows. "You don't think Ludwig is going to have fun with this, do you?"

Every fiber of the Italian's being freezes: Prussia, Lithuania, Poland, and himself can all be expected to run away, but - but not Germany. He's getting better, but he can't honestly be expected to run when he still can't even _walk_. He's still so hurt! "_Oh! No!_ - What - what should we do?"

"Make sure he's safe. I kinda hate to say this, but I don't give nearly as much of a shit about Poland and his boy toy so much as I do the both of you." It might be just a trick of the dim lighting, but Italy could swear he's almost crying. "I'm fucking scared, okay, so - Here. Take these."

Two objects are roughly shoved into Italy's hands, and he almost immediately recognizes them as the two guns Prussia had taken from him a few months ago. "You - you _trust_ me now?"

"I _have_ to. I have no other choice. I put some new ammo in your Beretta - look at me." Italy forces himself to look up into Prussia's red eyes before the albino continues, "There's a jeep out back that the four of you are going to take down through Czechoslovakia - they're less likely to look for you to the south, because I bet those commies think you'll take the short route to Germany, see?"

Italy bites his lip. "You're... you're coming with us," he tries to order.

"...No." Prussia averts his gaze. "I'm taking another jeep to the west as a decoy - "

"_No!_ I can't trust myself to get Germany out alright!" Italy cries.

"You don't have a choice! The four of you have a better fucking shot of getting out if I do things this way! One of us has to - "

"Then let it be _me_!" he argues, almost infuriated by Prussia's illogical idea. "I'm no use, and we all know it - ve, _you_ would be able to get him out without a problem - "

"_Fuck it all Italy, listen!_ I already told you: if _you_ die, he's going to give up! And - and besides..." Now Prussia turns his head completely away and wipes his nose. "I've... I've been fucking disbanded. You've still got a whole nation on your back, but - "

"Ve?" Italy is... well, he feels totally shocked. Prussia - _Gilbert_ - disbanded? After being there so long, now he's just going to disappear? That can't be right! "You're the Awesome Prussia!" he reasons. "You can't be!"

Prussia cracks a smile. "I thought that when they told me, too. I - well, _shit_ - I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but I didn't want to freak you out, and for the first time since I knew that's the way it was - I'm actually _glad_ I don't mean a flying fuck to anyone anymore." He sighs irritably. "I - I gotta do it, Italy. It's the only way."

"...What if I slip up again?" Italy whispers, horrified by the whole situation. "If - if I start to go crazy again, and if you don't get out, then who - ?"

"Talk to France. He called me a few weeks ago because he wanted to make sure nobody else had gotten their lung shot out, and I told him the whole story - and I do mean the _whole_ story. _I_ trust him," Prussia quickly adds when he sees Italy's eyes widen, "and he's damn good at keeping secrets." He shoots a glance at his brother, still asleep. "We gotta move - now."

As if on cue, Poland and Lithuania come back with some uniforms. "We, like, only found three," the Pole says breathlessly. "Now what?"

"I take one, you two take the others," Prussia commands, leaving no room for argument. He grabs one of the coats and buttons it with militaristic haste. "Italy, get - get Germany wrapped up in a blanket or something and I'll fill these guys in on the plan."

Italy nods, not knowing what else to do, as he tucks the guns into his pockets and numbly follows the albino's order. He takes off all the covers of the bed and grabs the thickest blanket of the bunch - now Germany is stirring and blinking slowly, unsure of anything anymore. "It's alright, Ludwig," Italy automatically begins to say. "We're just going to - to take you somewhere safe, with, um, with better doctors. Ve, it's okay..."

Germany listens quietly and nods feebly, and Italy has no idea if his lies work.

He wraps the nation (the skeleton) up and takes him into his arms far, far more easily than he should be able to pick up any grown man. Prussia finishes talking to Poland and Lithuania, whose faces are set in stone, and turns to look at his brother.

"...Hey Luddy," he whispers, voice cracking just a little. "You're in good hands, okay?" He fiddles with the iron cross around his neck for a moment before adding, "I'll give 'em hell for you."

Germany closes his eyes and leans into Italy's shoulder.

* * *

><p>They all exit as quickly as possible. Prussia goes first, in a vehicle with four other, formerly Prussian soldiers disguised in Soviet attire. The rest of the troops belonging to the nations there are preparing to put up a fight for as long as possible, to give them more time to flee. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, Italy thinks bitterly to himself. There isn't any hope for them, and there's nothing he can do.<p>

Lithuania and Poland get in first, taking up the driver's seat and shotgun, respectively. "Like, Ita - you two should lie on the floor in back," the Pole suggests. "You aren't a target that way."

He's right, so Italy arranges them both so that Germany's head is on his shoulder and Italy's own arms are wrapped around him. "You've gotten stronger," Germany mumbles to him as he's settled in the jeep. "You carried me."

Italy squeezes his eyes together and holds tighter. No, he knows. He hasn't gotten stronger; Germany has gotten lighter.

* * *

><p><em>Hell?<em>

_Hell is not knowing where the person you care for is or whether he is alive or dead or dying._

_Hell is being betrayed by the people you trusted would tell you the truth when you need it the most._

_Hell is choosing between two impossible options and watching your decision rip lives to shreds._

_Hell is not ever completely knowing if you made the right choice._

_Hell is waking up at night and seeing your hands covered in blood._

_Hell is seeing him covered in blood in your nightmares._

_Hell is knowing that everything is slipping through your fingers - everything you worked for, everything you dreamed for, everything you ever wanted - and knowing that you are powerless to take away his pain, unable to give him hope, unable to keep him safe, and not enough of a God to have spared the life that shouldn't have ever been yours for the taking._

_Hell?_

...

He doesn't need to be told that hell is real anymore.

* * *

><p>Italy smacks his head on the floor of the vehicle when it goes over a bump and winces at the pain. Poland and Lithuania haven't spoken for a long time, and Italy wonders how long they've been driving. Has it been hours yet, or only minutes?<p>

"'S cold," Germany mumbles.

A kiss to his forehead. "I know. I'm sorry." It's only July, but it is oddly cool out at the moment despite the cloudy skies. Maybe it'll rain soon.

"How're you two, like, holding up?" Poland asks as he glances back at the two of them on the floor.

"We're not... dead," Italy says truthfully. "Ve - how far until we get to the border?"

"We crossed the Oder River a few kilometers back - Prussia advised that we follow it upstream over the Czechoslovakian border," Lithuania chimes in. "I think that's Mount Sněžka in the distance behind us... So maybe another hour?"

Italy has to hold in a groan. So far, they'd been avoiding the mountains and country roads, but from there on, things will probably get rough.

"It's totally about _time_ things started going uphill," Poland comments dryly, completely aware of the pun he's just made. "We just go that way and we'll be alright, right?"

* * *

><p>Wrong.<p>

Italy starts getting carsick, some length of time later, when the jeep suddenly stops. He breathes out a sigh of relief; they must have crossed the border. "Oh yay! We're out now, right - ?"

"Shh! Be quiet!"

He blinks. "...Poland?"

"Oh son of a - _shit_!" the Pole curses under his breath.

The Italian pauses and listens for a minute... and another minute... and... "W-what's that rumbling noise?" he squeaks.

"I think it's a tank." Lithuania slowly creeps the vehicle forward again. "And it's somewhere nearby."

Italy's eyes grow wide and he grabs Germany as a force of habit. They have to stay alive, they have to stay alive, they have to - "Can't we just hurry and get into Czechoslovakia?" he whispers urgently.

Lithuania and Poland glance at each other. "...Ita," Poland whispers back, "we _are_ in Czechoslovakia - we're almost _halfway through_."

It takes a moment to sink in, and when it does, he inhales sharply. If the Soviet army had moved into the surrounding countries - no wonder they'd challenged them to try and escape! "_Now what do we do?_" he asks frantically. The next closest country is Austria, across the mountains, and if there are tanks hidden around them somewhere then there isn't a shot in -

"I take the jeep," Lithuania abruptly says, steadily and confidently. "I take the jeep and distract them, and the three of you escape on foot."

"Li-Lithuania?" Italy asks.

"Oh _hell no_!" Poland gasps.

"I _am_ a part of the USSR," Lithuania says sadly, more to himself than any of them. "Latvia and Estonia are stuck with Russia - what kind of person would I be if I abandoned them?"

"And what the _fuck_ kind of person would I be if _I_ abandoned _you_?" the Pole retorts desperately.

"If we run, it has to be _now_!" Italy urgently adds. "Ve, I understand if you two don't go, but I _need_ to get Germany somewhere safe!"

"Then go ahead," Lithuania says, sounding defeated by something. "I can't abandon my friends. Poland, go with - "

"No!" the Pole almost snarls. "_Not_ _without you!_"

"Ve! I think the tank is getting closer!"

"...Feliciano?"

Italy looks down, and his breathing stops for a moment. Germany is staring at him earnestly, and in that instant, Italy knows that he knows they're in jeopardy. His eyes are so scared that it makes the Italian want to cry. "Ludwig, it's - it'll be okay," he promises, something lodged in his throat. He strokes the blonde hair, softly, and looks back at Lithuania pleadingly.

Lithuania stares between the two of them in the backseat and Poland, and finally he bites his lip before leaning over and suddenly kissing Poland on the cheek. "God damn it then," he says. Italy thinks that this might be the first time he'd ever heard that nation swear before. "Here's to suicide."

"Only for you, Liet," Poland whispers back.

"Okay - Italy, then!" Suddenly they're scrambling to exit the vehicle. "Get out of the jeep with Germany! Now!"

"Liet! I'm, like, _so_ driving!" He sounds like he's almost laughing, and if he's as ready to scream as Italy is, it makes perfect sense.

"Fine, but we have to help them out first!"

"Good luck, Ita!" Poland is suddenly hugging him (he'd gotten out of the jeep?), and Italy feels his shoulder becoming a little wet. "Take - take care of your man, okay?"

This jerks him back to reality. Germany - he needs to get Germany out - "Right!" he says. "Um... Ludwig? Can I carry you on my back?" Germany blinks, and Italy thinks he sees a nod. And then, as he reaches for Germany, the German reaches back, and the full force of the action feels like a slap in the face.

Sometime, whether it had happened earlier tonight or the night before or weeks ago, Germany must have started caring again. He _does_ want out of this, he _does_ want to heal, he _does_ want to wake up in the morning again. He really, honestly does; when Italy searches for the confirmation, he can see it in his tired eyes, the truth exchanged without speaking a word. And even more - if anyone were to ask Italy in exactly that moment if he regretted anything, _anything_ he'd done those past few months, he would answer "No," without a shadow of a doubt; in those eyes, he can still see the man he'd fallen in love with so many years ago, and he swore to himself then and still promises himself now that he will forevermore do _whatever_ it takes to keep him safe.

Italy swallows.

He helps Germany over his back, piggy-back style, and nestles the blonde's head in the crook of his shoulder. "Hold on, Ludwig, o-okay?"

Germany nestles back and crosses his arms across the Italian's chest to hold on; Italy takes that as a good sign.

"Best of luck!" Lithuania says, not quite in a shout but not quietly either. "Get to Vienna as quickly as you - OH MY GOD FELIKS PLEASE DON'T KILL US ALREADY!"

Poland cackles, sounding somewhat suicidal, and the jeep shoots down the road without exchanging any other words of goodbye. Before Italy forgets that there are tanks nearby, he dashes behind some nearby shrubs and waits a few minutes, listening intently to the breathing of the German on his back and the sound of Russian being shouted somewhere down the road. He glances at the sky - cloudy, still. That's good. It means they have more time in the darkness to hide... he just hopes this darkness doesn't give way to a storm.

As soon as he thinks it's safe, they leave their hiding spot as Italy runs for the mountains.

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

Obviously this deviates from history quite a bit, since I doubt there would have been a specific date that this sort of thing would have happened, or that it would have happened in the middle of the night - but I digress. I can't imagine that the Iron Curtain would have fallen without a struggle, though, if nation-tans existed.

The Potsdam Conference was still going on in the early days of August, but by that point the USSR more or less had control over Eastern Europe - including Poland - and, knowing Russia's personality fairly well, I don't think it would be totally surprising if he wanted to, let's say... play with the other nations a bit before going in for the kill. That's my logic, at least.

Prussia's history at this time is rather confusing; from World War I-ish to the end of World War II, it's pretty debatable as to whether or not Prussia was still a country. Prussia was, however, certainly disbanded by this point in time, and the awesome character we all know probably became East Germany instead.

**Additional Author's Notes**

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" is Latin for "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country." Part of that phrase is the title of one of my favorite poems, a bittersweet and ironic piece by a soldier who died in WWI, which is especially the reason it's included. Also, I don't exactly know a whole lot about Czechoslovakia's terrain, but my understanding is that it's relatively mountainous. If someone wants to correct me or give me more information, feel free.

For what it's worth, the next chapter is the largest (so far) and also the most disturbing - and I mean that in every sense of the word.


	11. for

_**WARNING:**_  
><em><strong>This chapter is at least 70% of why this fic is rated M. <strong>_

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane <strong>

_Do you really want me dead_  
><em>or alive to torture for<em>

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>In and Out of 1945<strong>

* * *

><p>Germany has some strange dreams.<p>

He remembers Italy grabbing him, and grabbing him likewise, and being slung over the Italian's back, and holding on for dear life as Italy whispers, "Hold on, Ludwig, o-okay?"

And he nods against Italy's cheek, because he isn't sure he can manage a "Ja" at the moment, and then the steady rhythm of jogging makes him close his eyes and pretend for just a minute that everything is fine -

Then his eyes open.

It's the Angel, the most unholy being on the planet, who he sees staring at him with barely-masked glee. Germany sets his own face in stone. He _hates_ this dream, so much, because the pain of it always throws him off.

"Well, well, well." The Angel circles him; Germany might not be bound, but he knows to suppress his urge to strangle the man on the spot because the camp is crawling with guards who won't hesitate to shoot. "What a nice surprise!" he - it? Yes, It - exclaims. When It makes the "S" sound, It draws it out a little more than natural, like a poisonous snake. Germany has to clench his fists and try to think of something mundane as It continues, "Surely you can imagine my enthusiasm when I was told that a nation personification was coming here for me to study - I had been promised one before, but it seems it had disappeared before it could be shipped to me - " An It! It thought that _Poland_ didn't deserve a gender! The urge to punch such an awful, awful person - _thing_ - was growing stronger by the minute -

"I was told that it was your fault," the Angel says, still trying to hide Its morbid excitement. "So, accordingly, I suppose it will be my job to put you in your place."

That's when the dream skips - over the struggle with the guards and over the hissing lecture that follows - and the first thing Germany realizes again is that one of them has seized his right hand and taken his index finger and _bent it over backwards until it snaps and he had known it was coming but he couldn't fight back because it was only a dream of something that had already happened_ -

"Ludwig?" Italy says. "How are you holding up?"

He's cold. He's so cold that, if he were in his right state of mind, he would speak up and say so; instead he just hums, to let Italy know that he heard the question.

"Just - just a ways more, ve?" He sounds a little winded, but the steady rhythm of jogging keeps up.

Then, it's the start of winter. Germany hasn't eaten for days - the Angel refuses to let him, because he had refused to give It the answer It wanted to hear when It asked him a question. Cold. So cold. "Tell me his name," the Angel orders, matter-of-factly. And when Germany doesn't answer, It sits back into the shadows and waves the guards to go and take him back to his unheated cell. "I suppose this is fine - I'm curious to see how long a nation can survive without food anyway," It adds nonchalantly.

And then the dream skips again. Still winter outside, the doctor looks his fingers over. "Well... there isn't anything else I can do now. Do you feel hungry anymore?" Germany shakes his head, and the man nods as he seems to silently compare the pink triangle on Germany's shirt and the yellow star on his own.

"Tell me about your Italian again," he says softly.

_Feliciano is completely useless on the battlefield. He's too silly to order troops, because he can only announce jokes and other things that make his men smile. He has never had a prayer when it comes to marching anywhere since he always wants to stop the soldiers whenever he sees something that he feels would look pretty on a canvas. That's because he's an artist by nature, and he looks terribly out of place holding a gun and wearing the dirty uniform that comes with his duties as a commander. But... still. I wouldn't trade him for anything. He showed me how blind I was. Meine Welt ist nicht grau, because of him. I couldn't hate him for anything if I tried - never._

"Never?"

"Never," Germany echoes. "Never."

Then there are two guards holding him down; he might be a nation, but he's growing weaker by the day - _dammit all!_ - since the war and the hunger and the cold have been taking their toll. A few months ago, it would have taken _five_ to even attempt and restrain him. The Angel circles with a syringe. "I'll ask you again," It says, "and then I will not ask again. What is his name?"

Germany sneers. The last thing he would _ever_ say in front of that bastard is the name _Feliciano Vargas_ - to hear that name repeated by such a repulsive being is more sickening to him than his own death sentence. For the first time in a long time, he loses his temper and spits at the Angel. "_Go to hell where you belong!_"

"Hell?" It grins. "Hell is for Jews, remember, not people doing God's work - oh, but I'm quite sure that hell has plenty of room for faggots like the two of you."

And when he opens his eyes again, he can't even move. The needle is lying haphazardly by his arm - whatever was in it had long since been injected to paralyze him - and the Angel is examining him and taking notes. "Interesting reaction... Alright. Let's finish this off."

As it turns out, Germany might not be able to move, but that doesn't mean that he can't feel _every single blow - with dull and sharp objects alike - dealt to the bottoms of his feet_. If he could, he would shout curses at them all, but instead he can only manage to close his eyelids slowly...

"Fuck all, that's m-my brother."

...

Is someone... crying?

"G-go see. It's him." A floorboard creaks. "Be careful."

A few moments later, he feels a warm hand and forces his eyes open. It's... Italy? He's... he's _there_, his hair encircled with the light and his watery chestnut eyes - he's _really there_. He's somehow arrived in time to see Germany before he dies and - and really, that was the one thing. His only wish had been to see Italy one last time, because he's on his way out and he knows it and the doctors know it and Prussia knows it and, by the look on his face, Italy knows it.

He tries to smile and squeeze the hand back, to say that everything will be alright with him gone - to say that things will be better for the both of them. "F... Fe... li... c-ci..."

Italy looks horrified at that, and for a moment, so is Germany. He almost regrets his wish, then - he can't stand to see Italy looking so horror-stricken by him, and somehow it seems infinitely worse than if he were to feel horrified of himself. But suddenly, his hand is pressed to Italy's cheek. Warm - so warm - his eyes want to shut again, but he forces them to stay opened because this might be his last chance to ever see Italy's face.

(It doesn't matter that his cheeks are streaked with tears. He always looks beautiful, whether he knows it or not.)

"...Y-you're so strong," Italy says softly, gripping the hand tighter. "You're so, s-so _strong_."

No, no he isn't. He never was; he isn't going to make it this time, because the Angel has scarred his soul too deeply to just walk away from this and pretend nothing is wrong for the rest of his life. Death or torture - those are his two options, still, even out of the camp. He feels Italy's grip on his hand tighten even more... so warm... so, so warm...

Too warm.

His eyes open again.

The fire-poker is so blazing hot that it's white, and it's so close to his skin that he's feeling the burn already. "Let me ask you different questions, for the sake of variety," the Angel says, speaking lowly and evenly. "If you answer correctly, I might not continue with this. Now: what are you here for?"

Germany swallows, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed. "For assisting in the escape of an enemy of Hitler's."

"...And?" The poker seems to recede for just a moment. "What else?"

"For... going against government policies."

"Hmm. Creative name for it, if I might say so. And how were you caught?"

His teeth grind. "Over the phone line."

"...I'm impressed. It seems you do have the ability to cooperate. Alright then, one more. Do you admit regret for your crimes?"

Time stops as he realizes -

Him? Admit regret? Admit he was wrong? Admit to _crimes_? Admit that Italy means less to him than his own skin? He spits out an answer, not giving a second thought to the consequences.

"Suit yourself," It grins. "I probably would have hit you with this anyway. Now: let's see how a nation personification heals from _this_ - "

The smell of burning flesh will forever remain in his memory. _He can only wince, because he knows he has to go past the burning corpses anyway - there's no time to lose. He has men to lead into battle, dammit all, and since his nation is becoming weak, he isn't taking the invasion lightly. Napoleon is going to get what's coming to him if he has anything to say about it -_

_And the dream moves forward so fast, so fast that he barely recognizes the blonde in front of him. "Mon ami," the figure says flatly. He doesn't answer, and instead takes on the Frenchman with the hardest punches he has - so hard that he doesn't even hear the gunshot until it's too late - _

His eyes clench shut, and it takes all of his energy to act strong and not yell his lungs out at the whacks the guards are delivering to his ribs - _knives, some of them stabbing and others only swiping and all purposely hitting the burns_ -

Later, he comes even closer to cursing his enemies to hell, because applying bandages to third-degree burns and deep cuts hurt worse than anything he's ever experienced in his life. Now he understands the importance of the doctor. "Ludwig, I _know_ it hurts! I'm sorry, but you're going to have to stay as still as possible!"

"You try living through this!" he says, bitterly, wanting to get as close to and yet as far away from the bandages as possible.

"Just - concentrate on something else - "

"What will you do when you get out of here?"

The doctor pauses. "'When?' Don't you mean - "

"No. _When_ you get out."

"...My brother is in America. As soon as I can, I will go there." He winces, as he presses another bandage to Germany's skin, and he changes the subject. "Er - Feliciano. Tell me about him again."

_That Italian. His shoelaces are always in a mess, and sometimes I wonder if he's being serious about not knowing how to tie them properly. His uniforms have grass stains all over them, because he would rather get on his knees and play with kittens than lead any kind of war. He got the hole in his jacket's right elbow because he let a cat gnaw it off, if that tells you anything about him. And he refuses to leave me alone when he wants something, whether it's for us to play football or just for me to hold his hand. I don't know if these are faults or strengths - either way, I still forget to scold him when he looks at me with his deep eyes. _

"And you still do not blame him?"

"Maybe I did, once," Germany admits, contorting a bit in pain when the doctor presses against one of the worst wounds. "But... but not now... Don't ever wake me. Promise. _Promise._"

Italy doesn't promise, and instead he runs away - like a true Italian would.

He's in such a world of pain, but he manages to close his eyes. Maybe he can ignore Italy's screams coming from the floor above his head, and the rush of water through the pipes in the ceiling, and his brother's voice when he shouts. Maybe Italy will listen to him, this one time, and just let him drift away into death - or is that where he is now? To die, to sleep, perchance to dream, end of story.

Then the phone rings, and it sends him flailing into another dream - he's slamming down the receiver, and he is absolutely furious. Why is Italy such an _idiot_? He knew to never speak of their relationship - yet he does it in the most obvious of places! Anyone with a single brain cell would be able to realize that all the phone lines are bugged - and to still have let it slip! Germany doesn't care about any stupid declaration of war that Romano has involved them with, because that's hardly a pressing matter anymore. This will bring the high command down on their heads! It means that they'll -

Germany stops dead and halts his pacing.

(_Veneziano? IlovehimIlovehim - _)

Italy would be sent to a camp... he doesn't even know those places exist, and he - he would be - _No._ No, because Germany is _not_ going to let that happen. The Italian might be frustrating, he might do dumb things at times, but he is still Feliciano, the one person stopping Germany from losing himself in his worst nightmares. He has to get out - Germany will find some way to get him out - forget the fact that they are supposed to hate each other for suddenly being on opposite sides of the war! The hell with all the treaties and declarations!

He picks up the phone and dials. There's no time to waste if Italy is going to make it out of this...

"Ve - Ludwig - are - you - still - okay? _Don't - let - go - now!_"

Why... why is Italy breathing so hard? Why is he carrying Germany? It's cold again, so cold.

"I'm... I'm fine," Germany croaks. "Nothing's wrong with me, just - just go back to sleep."

"No," Italy says suddenly, rolling over in bed to look at him with wide eyes. "No, you're not fine. Germany, what's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong!" He can't seem to get his haggard breathing under control, though - the guns had come too close and he'd been shouting Italy's name and he'd been running, always running, trying to find a way to end the fight -

"Here." And for a moment, his heart stops, because Italy has gotten out of his own bed to get in Germany's. "Romano always sleeps with me when I have nightmares - i-it helps," Italy explains briefly. "Can I?"

Germany averts his eyes, and - strangely - Italy's idea sounds like a good solution. "I think that... well... Alright."

To his surprise, it feels very nice to have Italy's head resting on his shoulder and their arms wrapped around each other.

The Angel appears again, eating an apple - not because It's actually hungry, but because It knows Germany would be. "I have some information that you might find interesting," It says smugly. "Care to hear it?"

Germany says nothing; he simply stands, swaying slightly, in front of It. The bottoms of his feet are so sore from the last beating that it's taking all of his willpower to stay up, and he can't remember the last time he's been given anything to eat...

It shrugs. "Well, there was a small entourage of Italian soldiers found sneaking around by Berlin - and it was interesting because one of them was recognized by some of our military leaders as a representative of Italy before the cowards had changed loyalties."

...

Is... is It implying that... that -

"They said his name was Feliciano Vargas," the Angel continues, somewhat gleefully, "and that he was another nation! Imagine that!"

_No. No! NO! _

"Of course, the most logical way to prove his identity," It adds nonchalantly, "is to send him here - to be experimented on, of course, should it prove to be true, or to die if it is not - "

No no no no no no NO!

Nobody there expects him to react the way he does.

He'd been beaten down, tortured, starved, humiliated - but for one minute he forgets all of that and puts his fist in the Angel's face so hard that It is sent reeling backward and onto the ground. Germany isn't sure what happens to Its apple, but he's glad it's no longer in his sight. There would have been more - there should have been more! - but after a moment where the world is frozen, all the guards around immediately tackle him to the floor.

The struggle doesn't last long - one of them injects Germany with more of the paralyzing liquid, and before long he is staring straight upwards with his arms spread wide and his legs ramrod straight at the knee. The Angel picks Itself up off the floor, his lip bleeding and beginning to swell, and for the first time that he can remember, It looks infuriated. "I wasn't expecting my _lies_ to merit such a reaction," It says coldly.

Lies. _Lies!_ He'd known Italy's name all along! That _bastard_ -

"How many months have I been trying to pound into your head that I am in charge around here?" It rhetorically asks Itself. "It seems it's been a waste of time."

"Should we kill 'im?" one of the guards asks, a slight tenor of hope in his voice.

"...No... I think, however," the Angel says, beginning to revert back into Its old, emotionless self, "that you may have the honor of snapping all his fingers."

And so he does - carefully, which is ironic enough. Germany has no other option but to stare at the ceiling, towards heaven, and pray that something will take away the pain -

"And you." The Angel is speaking to another guard. "Get the pokers ready again. You: find the knives. I'm sure one of you brutes can also find that club for his feet, and maybe - oh! a pipe! A pipe would be wonderful!"

The hour that follows is the one of the worst of Germany's life. Burns, cuts, bruises, _so much pain that he can't voice_ -

"Yes," the Angel coos at him. "How does it feel to be beaten down and treated like the dirty fag that you are?"

"Sir," one guard speaks up. "If I might ask, what is the pipe for?"

"Oh, I'd forgotten about that."

There is a pause, as Germany wishes hard, so hard, that his weak body would just give in and fade away already, and why does he have to live through this -

"Sir?"

"...Flip him over and fuck him with it," It finally finishes smugly. "If he's a whore and a fag, why shouldn't we treat him to his own medicine?"

* * *

><p>Face down, injuries smeared on the dirty floor, fabric removed, <em>legs spread, objects forced, tearing flesh, ripping, burning, blood on his thighs, the drugs wearing off and him screaming, screaming so hard now that he can - <em>

* * *

><p>...<p>

...

...

And mercifully.

For a time, his dreams go dark.

* * *

><p>...<p>

"Hung... read... a stor..."

...

...

"...kind of story... want to hear?"

"I want to... King Arthur."

...

"Not Plato... or Aristotle?"

"No! I want to... one of his brave tales!"

"Alright... As you wish," she says with a wink.

It takes her a moment to reach _Le Morte D'Arthur_ on the shelf, but as soon as she has it and sits down in one of the library's chairs, he finds himself scrambling onto her lap. "Which one of his adventures shall we read today, hmm? Perhaps the story where the Lady of the Lake gives him Excalibur - "

"No," he complains, "we've already read that one."

"Maybe... the story of the quest for the Holy Grail?"

"Hungary, we've read that one, too!"

"Alright, alright!" she exclaims in good jest. "Well... have we read the chapter on Sir Lancelot and the Fair Maid of Astolat?"

He thinks on that for a moment and finally shakes his head. "No. Please, I want to hear that one!"

And with that, Hungary begins to read.

"_Now that the_ - oh, it looks like there's another story in this chapter first - but you still want me continue, don't you? - _Now that the quest for the Sangreal was complete, all the knights in England returned to Camelot. Upon the arrival of the great Sir Lancelot, made famous by the expedition, many a maiden sought him to be her champion; in doing so, he often withdrew from the queen. Guinevere, becoming rightfully jealous, as he was her own knight and champion, one day bid him come to her chamber and instructed him, 'Alas, your alliances doth grow fail, Sir Lancelot. Now do I understand thee, false knight - depart now from my sight, and return to this court only upon penalty of thy head.' And then she did turn away, without giving heed to his excuses. _

"_Lancelot prepared to depart from the country, with a heavy heart, and he called upon his fellow knights for their advice. 'It is best,' allowed his friend Sir Bors, 'to take thy horse and ride to the hermitage beside Windsor, and to wait for word to return - women are hasty creatures, and God willing you might return quickly into the queen's favor' -_ "

"Are women like that?" he asks with a frown.

Hungary shakes her head, smiling a little to herself. "Not all of them; now let me read.

"_Now when the queen heard of his leaving, she inwardly felt great sorrow, but was very careful to show a great pride to all who looked upon her. And in doing so -_ "

"Huh?" he interrupts again. "Why couldn't she pretend to be sorry on the outside?"

She looks down at him again. "She was in love with him, and he with her, but it was forbidden. Remember?"

He does, now. Love... is that like what he feels for Italy now? That would be awful, if he actually had to pretend he didn't care... "O-oh. I'm sorry - please, keep reading."

"Ahem. _And in doing so, she set a great feast for the knights of the land. But one knight attending, Sir Pinell, had a quarrel with Sir Gawain, and so he intended to extract his revenge by allowing Sir Gawain to eat a poisoned apple. However, instead the Irish knight Sir Patrice took the apple in his mouth, and a great uproar was caused when he suddenly fell down dead. Rightfully so, many of the knights suspected Guinevere, and in the chaos, King Arthur sought to defend her by hosting a contest. 'Fair lords,' he exclaimed, 'in fifteen days' time, there shall be a match between those accusing my queen and any knight who will be her champion - the winner shall then prove or disprove her innocence in this great scheme. God speed the right, and if not, then my queen must be burnt!' _

"_For many days and nights, then, she deeply prayed for a champion to step forward in her name, but to no avail, for Sir Lancelot was no longer in the land. Finally, on the day the match was to take place, the nobles gathered in a crowd beside Westminster, and the knight Sir Mador rode forth and took an oath that Queen Guinevere was guilty of Sir Patrice's death. Upon this, Sir Bors also rode forth and bid halt - there was a knight on the hill, riding a white horse and with a strange shield, who would do battle for the queen, he said. There was a murmur from the crowd upon this, as none knew his identity. _

"_When the joust began, their horses ran towards each other and a great clash occurred; Sir Mador's spear broke short, but the strange knight and his horse both fell to the ground. Then they commenced to battle on foot. It took nearly an hour's time for the fight to end, for Sir Mador was a strong and valiant knight, but at last the stranger smote him onto the ground -_ "

"Did he die?"

"Hush! We'll find out! _And upon the dust Sir Mador was spared, so that he revoked his oath and declared the queen innocent. And when he did, the strange knight bid that Guinevere be set free, and upon the victory the king declared a feast. When the strange knight took off his helmet to drink, then, all were amazed that her champion was indeed the great Sir Lancelot himself, and the queen fell upon her knees and wept for joy. _

"_Thus, the crime was put to right. The Lady of the Lake appeared in the court soon thereafter and revealed then that the poisoned apple had been laid by Sir Pinell for Sir Gawain to have eaten -_ "

"Hungary!"

The two of them look up, startled, and see an irked Austria in the doorway. "You," he directs to her, "have not finished your chores for the night."

"Oh! I'm sorry, Austria!" She turns to the boy on her lap. "We didn't even get to the real story! I'm sorry! - "

"_Hungary_," Austria says impatiently.

She hurries out of the library, leaving the boy sitting there on the couch with the worn pages. _Le Morte D'Arthur_... The Death of Arthur, then, was what it translated to. He frowns as he holds the book in his hands, because he's never considered the title before - now he knows that Arthur dies at the end. There doesn't seem to be any reason he would want to read more, if he knew how things would end. His eyebrows lift again, though, and he can't help but smile a little to himself when a different thought comes to mind.

"I wonder if I could be Italy's knight," he sighs to himself... "After all, I... am th... the..."

The what?

The... ly...

Ro...

Hol...

Roma...

...

"Okay, split up. There has to be someone important here - "

He stirs, but doesn't open his eyes until he hears a familiar accent nearby. "Why the bloody hell would there be anyone here?"

Footsteps on the floor, walking walking walking. Pause.

"...Is that...?"

Germany blinks, lazily.

"Oh my God. _Oh my God_," England whispers, eyes so wide it looks like he's seen a ghost.

...

...

"Shh. You're safe right here, Germany."

He blinks up at the doctor. Brown hair, but no yellow star. And... glasses? Huh. That's not what he remembered from before.

"Just relax."

Relax. But he can't - something snaps inside and he remembers enough awful things to give him nightmares for centuries to come, and all he can feel is _in and out and in and out_ and the pain and he knows that the blood is still there and isn't ever going to go away -

"When did... when did you get a beauty mark?" he croaks.

"I - I'm sorry." The pale face of a starving man with sunken eyes looks at him so, so pitifully. "I can mend bones, I can help heal burns, and I can bandage cuts - but I can't give you back - give you back your - your..."

Germany glances at the star, then at his triangle. He says nothing.

"Ve, Austria?"

"Italy?"

"Will h-he ever get better?"

...

He can't help but close his eyes and fade adrift before he ever hears the answer.

* * *

><p><em>Feliciano -<em>

_With his worn uniform, scuffed boots, wild hair, eyes that glow brighter than any candle or electric light - and such soft hands, such a gentle touch that it's no wonder all the kittens want to be petted and stroked by him, and no wonder he isn't suited to hold guns or throw grenades - and with softer lips that taste of fruit and stale bread and fine Italian wine and something that doesn't quite belong on earth at all - _

_- Feliciano._

_I love him. _

_I do now, and I always have. I always will. _

_..._

_But I can never have him. _

_He wasn't there. He didn't see the hell they put me through. He doesn't know how much it hurts. He doesn't understand that staying away from me would be best for both of us. He doesn't know how much they enjoyed using that pipe and how they took pride in breaking something much more permanent than my fingers and how they got a thrill from abusing me and making me react in such unspeakable ways that it makes me want to die every day of my life - and because of that I can never even think of touching him because I can't bear the thought of even getting close enough to hurt him the way they hurt me. _

_Because I do. I really do love him, so much it breaks my heart._

_... _

_He can't ever know. _

_..._

_..._

* * *

><p><em>...<em>

"Can I carry you on my back?"

* * *

><p>...<p>

...

...

He reaches out a hand.

_SavemehelpmeI'mdyingIloveyousomuchplease!_

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

...

_"Hold on, Ludwig, o-okay?"_

...

...

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

"H-hold on."

...

"H-hold... on..."

...

...

The voice is going farther and farther away.

...

No. Don't leave yet.

Please... no...

...

...

"Please, _forgive me for what I'm going to do for you._"

...

...

...

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

The "Angel" or "Angel of Death" was a real person whose given name was Josef Mengele.

**Additional Author's Notes**

...Wouldn't it be positively evil if I didn't finish this fic?


	12. my

XXX

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane <strong>

_Do you really want me dead_  
><em>or alive to torture for my<em>

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>July 1945<strong>

* * *

><p>For the second time in his long life, Italy sees Austria cry.<p>

He's floating through the hours like a dream, but he is all too aware of what happens upon their arrival - Italy literally collapses on the lawn of the sprawling mansion (one of the few left in Vienna) just as the sun rises. Germany makes a noise that isn't quite a grunt or a whimper, and Italy can't help but frantically try to scramble to his feet again to get inside -

And then, someone is helping him up. Switzerland. Italy freezes for just a moment, because the last time they saw each other he'd nearly been shot for trespassing on Swiss land. The blond only looks at him steadily, his eyes piercing. "Inside. Now."

Why is he acting so serious? Switzerland has always been solemn, but now he seems even worse than usual. Italy yelps and stumbles towards the door, still almost completely out of breath, with Switzerland holding his arm and guiding him all the while. "Wh-wh-why are - you here - ve?"

"Prussia called for a bit of intervention," he monotones. "Russia isn't going to come into this section of Vienna if he doesn't want blown off the face of the earth, now that I'm around."

Italy sniffles and tries to keep his nose from running. "I... I don't know... if he..."

"He said he wouldn't make it out."

That makes him sigh, almost angrily. "Do you just n-not care?"

"It's not that. My concern is elsewhere at the moment." Switzerland's eyes soften for a moment, and then he holds the door open for Italy and says, "Go upstairs and get Germany in bed. Austria has a basic medical training - he'll look at him later when he's calmed down."

Calmed down? "What do you mean by - "

"And," he firmly interrupts, "don't go anywhere near the library right now. Alright?"

"I... ve. Alright."

He is about to go upstairs, one step at a time - his legs are about to give out again - but Switzerland seems to have forgotten that the nearest staircase _is_ right next to the library. Without even meaning to, Italy glances inside once and absorbs the awful scene before him.

Paintings, photo albums, handwritten notes, pressed flowers, waltz music - so many things, all scattered on the floor in a rage. And in the middle of it is Austria, holding one picture that Italy remembers drawing back in 1867 as a wedding present for the bride and groom. "_Eliza_," he's moaning to himself between low sobs. "_E-Eliza!_"

Italy doesn't stay to hear more. Instead, as he trudges upstairs a little bit at a time, he can't help but trying to think back and remember if Austria had cried more at Holy Rome's death or at this.

* * *

><p>Italy wakes up very disoriented. He has no idea how long he's slept, but it's dark outside, as he can see through the window several feet across the chamber... Where is he? The room is plain and unfamiliar, save for the blond lying next to him -<p>

...

"Ve!" Italy scrambles out of bed once the memories of the night before come back to him, which soon proves to be a mistake as his legs convulse and cause him to fall on the floor. How many miles had he run again? - across half of Czechoslovakia? - he probably won't be able to stand up for a few days without having awful leg spasms. But it doesn't matter, because he finally has done something _right_ and gotten Germany to safety; he pulls himself off the ground and sits on the bed, which sinks under his weight. "L-Ludwig?"

Germany stirs only slightly. He looks a little pale, and Italy's eyes widen as he puts his hand to the blond's forehead and feels him running a slight fever. "A-Austria!" he yells.

Only seconds later, the aristocrat appears in the doorway, showing no signs of having cried at all - he must have been waiting nearby for one of them to wake up. "Italy," he acknowledges with a stiff nod. Without wasting any time, Austria bends over and picks up a small bag - a doctor's bag - and sets it on the bedside table. "How long have you been awake?"

"Um. Maybe a few minutes? Per favore, Austria, I think he's running a fever - "

"I'll get there. You slept for about fourteen and a half hours - " a pause, " - give or take about three minutes. Don't sleep too much more or it will be bad for your system, alright?"

"Ah... si?"

The blond suddenly whimpers in his sleep.

"Wake him up," Austria directs. "I don't want him accidentally moving around."

Italy shakes him. "Ludwig! Ludwig, come on!"

Germany snaps his eyes open.

Austria immediately takes over, measuring vitals and muttering generic words of calm like a doctor should. "Shh. You're safe right here, Germany. Just relax."

He squints. He looks confused by something. "When did... when did you get a beauty mark?" he asks hoarsely to the Austrian.

Italy blinks... he has no idea what that means - but it can't be that awful, can it? If Germany is at least seeing them there, even if he isn't making complete sense - "Ve, Austria?"

"Italy?"

"Will h-he ever get better?"

Germany closes his eyes again, and Austria finishes and packs up his rudimentary tools. "...There isn't anything I can do right now - he just needs to rest. Let me know when he wakes up so that maybe he can eat something - "

"_Austria._"

He stops in the doorway, and sighs. Finally, he gives Italy an answer: "Physically, yes, I suppose we can expect Germany to heal..." Austria looks the two of them over with a shadow of sadness passing across his face. "It's the psychological damage that might never go away."

* * *

><p>A few days later, Italy is mobile again; Austria finds him in the library.<p>

"Italy," he says, with a pale face. "I just finished with a more thorough examination, and - "

There's a pause, and Italy looks up intently from his book. "Ve? You... looked Germany over again? What is it? Will he be - ?"

Another pause.

Austria swallows several times before managing, "Do... do you... _do you have any idea what they did to him?_"

* * *

><p>Italy stares at the ceiling - he'd been still as death for hours and doubly conscious of the breathing body next to him.<p>

Reaching into his pocket now, he removes the guns.

...Why? Why did Prussia give Italy back both of the weapons? One of them would have been one too many for him, and it wasn't as though he would have needed two anyway, so _why_? He frowns, feeling himself beginning to slip again and remembering in bits and pieces, like a half forgotten dream, how he'd felt that day when the blood kept flowing from the holes in his hands when thinking on the eyes of the man who was dying on the wall -

Holes in his hands? He can put holes in his hands, can't he?

Italy sits up suddenly and causes the bed to shake not just a little; his grip steadier than it has been in a long time when he decides to open up the barrel of Prussia's Walther and make sure for himself that there are plenty of bullets to use - and then he sees it. In the single open case, there is a small roll of paper. He blinks a bit before using his slender thumb and index finger to remove it. He unrolls it - Prussia's scrawling letters.

_Er liebt dich. Don't do it. _

It takes several seconds, but when he finally reacts, he blinks away the tears as he gives up and throws the two handguns across the room.

* * *

><p><strong>January 1946<strong>

There isn't ever a moment where Italy consciously notices Germany turning into his old self - instead, it happens slowly, and as the months pass they each smile a little more.

So it seems, at least. It's still a sham, at least partially, and they both know it. Italy just pretends to not notice that sometimes Germany's blue eyes are rather red and puffy, and likewise Germany ignores it when Italy's lips quiver early in the morning. They only mention how awful the nights really are when Germany apologizes once in a while, and even then Italy insists it isn't a problem; it's never talked of otherwise. It's winter, but he never ever ever sees Germany wearing anything but wearing long-sleeved shirts and pants anymore, even on the days with warm weather - and what's more, Italy _wants_ to know more about the cuts, the burns, the blue tattoo, the bruises that may or may not have faded, and the scars that he will never see. He doesn't it once, but the days when he wonders what_ really_ happened and what Germany sees in those awful nightmares he has - those are the days where Italy feels like the walking dead and has to force himself to not curl up and cry.

Speaking of: Germany is walking now.

They left Austria's house several months ago; now they're surviving together in a small house near Stuttgart. Every time Germany shuffles past Italy's desk (he has yet to work up the energy to stride like he used to), the brunet pretends nothing is wrong, but a part of him is completely scared to death that one day Germany will find out his worst secret. He just _can't know_, and it's really as simple as that, because the moment he finds out is the moment Italy is going to snap again and use one of those bullets. Germany wouldn't treat it with the indifference Prussia had - he wouldn't be able to accept why Italy had to kill a man, no matter what the circumstances. Italy is quite sure of that.

It's killing him - and yet, the more the days pass, the more he finds it slipping from his mind. Of course, seeing the scene play out in his dreams some nights, over and over and over, brings him back to the gripping reality of the crime he's committed, but sometimes he really wonders if he and Germany could be happy forever and ignorant of the past.

This is what he's thinking to himself as he silently grins at Germany; the blond has fallen asleep with a book left open on his lap. Shaking his head at the idyllic look of it all, he gently picks up the novel and frowns as he glances at the cover. _Le Morte D'Arthur_...

Strange. That had... that had been the Holy Roman Empire's favorite book.

He doesn't know what to do, and so he hides it in the back of a drawer, as another piece of his history he will never be able to overcome.

* * *

><p><strong>October 1946<strong>

The Nuremberg Trials come to a close; Italy reads Germany the verdicts for the former Nazis from the paper with more than just a little bitterness in his mouth, occasionally stumbling over the pronunciation of a name or two.

Sentences: death, death, death, twenty years in prison, death, death, ten years, death, acquitted, death, death, death death death -

Germany grips his mug. "Any others?" he asks coldly, staring at the liquid.

Italy stares down at the table and tries not to stutter. Germany is becoming irritated with their old mistakes as nations again - this is why they avoid the past. "No... D-do you think it's a good verdict?"

"Of course not, but it couldn't get better." Germany turns away in a moment of anger to gaze out the window. "They're all awful, cruel _bastards_ who deserve nothing less for being murderers."

And at that, Italy is very glad that Germany doesn't see his eyes widen and his hands begin to shake.

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

For reasons that I really don't understand, I've seen Prussia/Austria angst about being separated by the Iron Curtain, but - for whatever reason - I haven't stumbled across any fics about Austria/Hungary in the same circumstances.

Vienna was also divided into sections for some time under Allied control, like Germany and Berlin.

To elaborate just a little on Mengele, since more than one reviewer has brought it up: he's _famous_ for experimenting on twins, but he did plenty of other awful things to people in Auschwitz. I don't think I can do the descriptions justice, however, so if anyone wants more information, I suggest they look him up for details (well, I can't do it justice _or_ think about it longer than a few minutes at a time - he was just _sick_).

**Additional Author's Notes**

It's all written by now, but I think I need to go back and fix a few errors in the other chapters before posting the final one (unless the majority disagrees with me). Any opinions?


	13. sins?

_**2015/01/11**_

So I kind of started writing a sequel for this. And it's posted. This could be a Very Big Deal for some of you, I guess, so have fun with that! It's called _**A Portrait of a Tortured You and I**_, and it's on my profile along with some other, super-cool related stuff...

...Like a link to this awesome gal named **People Person I'm Not**, who's done a multi-chaptered vignette for this fic! It's called _**Bury Me**_ (because 30 Seconds to Mars = yessssss) and it's so freaking perfect that it literally _pains_ me to check out the updates.

Now: GO FORTH AND READ!

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes<strong>

Some of the wars mentioned in this chapter are meant to be relatively generic, within a reasonable time period. Hopefully this doesn't confuse anyone.

**Additional Author's Notes**

Editing can wait; you guys rock.

I'm not entirely sure this is the prime time for self-promotion, but I do want to point out that the chances I'll write more for the Hetalia fandom are pretty darn high (I have at least two more one-shots planned, and I might have just started writing a new multi-chaptered historical project). If you liked this, I probably have something else appealing to your tastes.

Since nothing drives me more insane than an author rambling at the very end of a story, the notes are placed at the top for this final chapter. I won't spoil much about what's to come, but I have to say... this final installment was supposed to be pretty cut-and-dry. The key word in that sentence, of course, was _supposed_ - as in, it's not exactly that way anymore. I place the blame for this on Henrik Ibsen's _A Doll's House_, which is a stage play I read in my AP Lit class. I couldn't help but derive some parallels from it (since I had already written a good portion of this fic at the time) and let that script's influence take this chapter in a different direction for a bit; with that being said, I left my original plan for the ending mostly intact.

Hopefully it doesn't disappoint; adieu. And, as always, don't forget to leave a review!

**Additional Disclaimer**

The title for the fic and the chapter names are derived from lyrics to a song by 30 Seconds to Mars. I don't claim any ownership of the band or its records.

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>This Hurricane<strong>

_Do you really want me dead_  
><em>or alive to torture for my sins?<em>

* * *

><p>XXX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>1950<strong>

* * *

><p>There's a bright flash outside, and after a moment of almost utter silence, the thunder resounds so loudly it rattles the desk drawers. And, a few seconds later, the cycle repeats.<p>

"Shut up shut up shut up _shut up_!" Germany mumbles to himself, trying to stay focused on his book. Where had he been - he'd lost his page - Oh, there: _Now when the queen heard of his leaving, she inwardly felt great sorrow, but was very careful to show a great pride to all who looked upon -_

Crash.

"Verdammt!" He shuts it with a huff; even though nobody is there to see him, he's still defensive and turning to anger. "How am I supposed to get anything done if - "

The light flickers, and, after another crask of thunder, the power goes out.

"..._Sheisse_," he whispers.

When the lightning flashes again, he swears that there is a pale face reflected towards him in the shadows, angel and demon wrapped in one being - and the worst is that he _knows_ it's his mind playing tricks on him. Now he remembers why Italy hardly lets him out of his sight anymore. Without him nearby, Germany starts going insane.

A light. He should find a light - he swiftly walks to the kitchen, being cautious of the furniture and doorways, and pulls out a pack of matches and a tall red candle from the utility cupboard. It takes three tries, but soon the room is flickering in the soft golden gleaming of a flame. It makes everything look strange and ethereal -

The guns.

Germany, in glancing around the room, doesn't miss the chilling gleam of black and silver lying on the table. He purses his lips and huffs, getting angry with himself, before he sits down in a hard wooden chair to pull his hair out.

He'd been avoiding it, but now the question has sprung to his mind again: What the _hell_ had Italy done? To commit murder! - the greatest atrocity of all! - and for what purpose? France had said that it had been for Germany's sake, but that makes the truth of it all even more difficult for him to comprehend. He simply doesn't see how he's worth such a high price, and it infuriates him that Italy would go out and do something so awful for anyone! Worse - he'd as good as lied about it! To have trusted him for so long, and now to learn that Italy had never cared enough to tell him of this - what is Germany worth to him? And since the truth is coming out, what is _he_ worth to Germany now?

Another crash of thunder.

He looks over the weapons again, swallowing... What is he thinking? Italy - Italy is _still_ worth the world to him. But he - he can't get his mind wrapped around it. Italy? Killing a man - a _murderer_? His hands clench in uncertainty and doubt. What are they, now? Does Italy still care? Does he even still feel anything for Germany behind the secrets?

Germany rubs his temples as a huge flash of lightning and boom of thunder strike almost simultaneously outside. He grits his teeth - the storms always make him think too much of gunshots and war and the screams of the -

_"For Italy!" _

He growls and shudders at another strike of lightning.

_And they're running. The field is chaotic, but they have to push through; there's no time for idleness if they're going to survive this damned war. He joins the soldiers because it's his duty as a nation, although he's barely enough of a man to know how to use the weapons - _

Boom.

_- and the cannon shots are just as likely to hit them as they are to hit the enemy, but he has to remember why he's doing this! Italy is back at Austria's house, and he'll be damned if he isn't strong enough to win this war and go back to see them again - _

"Shut up shut up - "

_- and so he has to do this! He has to protect the things he loves! Now he's running through the field, shooting his rifle at nobody in particular and darting to the ground when he reloads after every shot, until one of the stupid stupid enemy soldiers is taking aim at him right before his eyes. And right as he notices, his rudimentary gun jams up, and he knows he should run - _

"Go!" he's whispering to himself. "Run!"

_- but his pride won't let him. Instead, he takes out a dagger and dashes right up to the man and - _

"Oh Gott," Germany pleads. "Oh Gott, wake up already - "

_- and slits his throat - and - and watches as the soldier's eyes roll into the back of his head as he lets out the groan of a dying man - and - and - and falls to the ground._

_The soldier doesn't get back up. The stranger's eyes widen in death, and his eyes widen in what he's done._

_That's when the boy runs, runs, runs back through the people trying not to sob - _

"IT'S NOT MY MEMORY!" Germany stands up so suddenly the chair falls over and the candle-light wavers. It takes him a moment to realize that there's nobody there to talk to, nobody there who needs an explanation, nobody there to tell about his nightmares. Italy knows, or at least partially knows, but Italy is gone.

In the candle-light, near the kitchen sink, Germany swears that he sees the Angel bending over and leering at him, as if to say, "I'm getting a pipe. Are you going to stop me this time?"

Germany narrows his eyes and knocks the candle over with his fist so as to blow it out. The figure disappears.

Another flash. Another boom. Finally he notices the rain hitting the window, and with a shudder he wipes his own eyes.

"God damn it," he mutters as he heads upstairs. "It's like a hurricane out there."

* * *

><p>He doesn't sleep a bit that night; instead, he goes and hides under the blankets of the bed, like a child, and consistently winces every time a bit of light or roll of sound comes through the makeshift barrier. He has no idea how long this goes on for, but at some point he does notice that the night has melded into the day, although the storm continues outside.<p>

A door opens. "...Germany? Ve, Germany?"

Oh no. No, no he isn't ready to face Italy yet - what is he ever going to say about the guns he found? How is he going to ask for the truth? How can he pretend that he isn't angry over learning that Italy's a murderer, or pretend that he doesn't care about such a sick atrocity - ?

"Germany? Are you in bed?" He sounds... tired. Just as tired as Germany is. The bedroom door opens slowly, and Germany sees him peeking inside with only one of his eyes and that curl. A moment later, the curl recedes and the door opens fully. "Ciao, Ludwig," he says with a soft smile.

What to say? What to do? "Morgen. How... how's Romano?" he asks gruffly.

"Oh, he's fine." The brunet sets his small bag down and walks over to the bed. "Did you sleep last night?" he asks, concerned.

Germany shakes his head. "Did you?"

"...No..." He pauses, and then with a tired grin he says, "Yay! It's time for napping, then!"

It's hard to not smile back (even if he knows in the back of his mind that he should still be angry), and Germany halfway fails at keeping his face neutral. "Ja... I wouldn't mind that," he admits.

That's the moment when he makes a split-second decision: not yet. Internally, he might be falling apart, but he wants to have just a few more hours of peace before the consequences rip them apart. As much as they pretend to be happy, pretending for just that much longer won't matter anyway.

Italy bends over to steal a short kiss before taking his shirt off and crawling into the bed. "Then we will. Ve -Goodnight," he says, snuggling up next to Germany's shoulder and closing his eyes.

"It's morning," he corrects with a slight eye roll.

Italy ignores him. "Ti amo."

Germany might pull him closer and feel the response deep in his chest, but for the first time, he can't seem to make his lips form the words.

* * *

><p>"Hey. Hey. Germany. <em>Ludwig.<em> Ve, are you awake?"

He rolls over, getting a little closer to the warmth. "...'M now," he mutters sleepily.

Without opening his eyes, he knows that Italy is smiling when he says, "I'm getting hungry - do you want breakfast?"

"What time 's it?"

"Um... three in the afternoon."

After thinking the absurdity of it over for a moment, he hums. "Alright. Why not."

Then the warmth is gone, and he finally opens his eyes to see Italy getting partially dressed again. "Eggs? Sausage?"

"And toast," Germany suggests lazily.

Italy stands up straight (for once) and mock-salutes him with the wrong hand. "Si Signore Germania!" he grins. Without further delay, he runs out of the room to begin cooking.

For several moments, Germany is content to sit there and think. If only things would stay this way forever - if only they could both be so optimistic every morning (afternoon?) - if only...

He sighs and gets out of bed, making sure his long sleeves are rolled down and that most of his skin is covered. Satisfied with his appearance, he heads downstairs. Things seem oddly quiet - why isn't Italy making any noise? Normally, there would be some clattering pans by now, or singing, or something -

He gets to the kitchen and freezes.

Italy is by the kitchen table, tracing the eagle on Prussia's gun - still sitting exactly where it had been last night - with wide eyes and shaking hands; he looks more scared in that moment than Germany has ever seen. "No," he's whispering to himself, "no, no, no, no, no, no - "

"Feliciano?"

Germany suddenly wants to slap himself in the face for speaking, because now Italy's eyes have snapped upward and met his own. "..._Ludwig_?" he whispers pleadingly, sounding scared to death. And then, Germany can't help but forget every reason he'd found to be angry last night - because now he understands exactly what France meant. Now he's seeing the hurt for himself, just like the other nation had said he would - _how long has this been hidden from him_ - ?

Italy runs. Germany reacts almost instantly, but Italians are naturally fast - Italy is already out the front door, heading towards the back of the house with the garden - is he wiping his eyes? - and the gun in his hand is slowly rising higher and higher towards his own head -

"_Feliciano!_"

And then the Italian is falling - he must have tripped on something, and he barely avoids falling into a nearby rosebush. The gun must have slipped from his hands, too, because Germany sees him trying to scramble for it in the wet dirt, but by then it's too late.

Germany pins him on the ground, holding him down by the wrists and by straddling him, keeping his legs around the Italian's thighs. And Italy is crying hard, _so hard_, and it's so obvious that he's completely scared to death that Germany feels it in his own soul, as cliche as it is. "Feliciano, I - I don't - "

"H-h-how long?"

He sounds so defeated - almost as though he's dead. Germany stumbles over his own words a minute and finally manages, "...Yesterday."

"A-and - " it gets visibly caught in his throat for a bit, " - and y-you know th-the t-truth."

Not a question. "I... No. Yes." Germany sighs angrily at the turmoil in his head. "I know parts, I suppose. Feliciano, I - " He has to swallow when his eyes meet Italy's again. "I apologize for alerting you to my knowledge of the guns in such a... such a careless way. I - " Another bitter sigh. " - I would just like to hear the truth from you. I expect nothing less and nothing more... Is that so unreasonable?"

A pause.

And then, of all things, Italy _glares_ at him, and his hands curl into fists. In his surprise, Germany loosens his grip on Italy's wrists, although the Italian doesn't seem to notice.

"D-do you really think," he begins in a low voice, "that y-you can just s-say you're sorry and that it makes everything r-right?" His arms are beginning to shake - Germany can feel it. "Y-you expect th-the biggest secret of my life to j-just be something I let go so easily? A-and," he lifts his head off the ground and narrows his red eyes even further, "do y-you think you're actually being _r-reasonable _with that request?"

Germany can hardly even breathe."What about it is _not_ reasonable?" he asks, honestly not sure what the Italian is hinting at. "I've known you for God knows how many decades anymore, and I want to know the truth - !"

"Oh, y-you want the _truth_," Italy spits out, his head dropping down again. "You found out _yesterday_ th-that I kept two guns in a desk, and y-you managed to learn part of the story, a-and so you ask for the _truth_! I found a d-dying nation in Warsaw more than five years ago, w-with cuts a-and bruises and b-burns - " he lets out a sob, " - and o-only part of the s-story to go with it, _a-and I d-didn't push y-you f-for the d-details_!"

Then, just as rapidly as it appeared, the venom in his expression dies; he's sobbing again, so hard that Germany actually wonders if he's going to be sick. By God - and it was _true_ - in his first reactions of anger, he hadn't even considered that Italy had suffered so, so much longer than he had. And then, just as soon as he thinks this, he removes his hands from Italy completely and instead uses his palms as support to lean over and kiss away all the tears sliding down his cheeks - and even then, he only has a moment before Italy uses a freed hand to pull Germany's mouth lower, onto his own.

"Mi - dispace," Germany breathes between kisses, in Italy's native tongue.

The other nation pulls away for a moment, his eyes watering again. "No, I - ve, _I'm_ sorry! I - I d-didn't mean to yell at you!"

Germany looks those bronze eyes over again. "France was right," he whispers to himself in a moment of epiphany.

"W-what?"

"France," Germany repeats aloud. "I've never seen you angry before - I didn't even completely believe it was_ possible_ for you to be angry at anything - but he insisted that he'd seen you enraged - " He shakes his head. "No, you have no reason to be sorry for any of the things you said; you were right."

"You - you talked t-to _France_?" Italy squeaks.

It occurs to Germany then, at least slightly in advance, that he's treading on a subject that could turn nasty very quickly. "I _tried_ to talk to France," he insists, softly rubbing his thumb on the Italian's cheek. "He told me that it would be an great injustice if I had to hear the full story from him."

One of Italy's slender hands comes up to his face to rest on Germany's, softly gripping it; he closes his eyes and swallows. "I c-can see his logic," he admits quietly. He gives a shaky sigh. "W-what are we doing? I - I mean, we keep s-saying that we l-love each other and hug and k-kiss but - but we both know that we've j-just been ignoring th-the things we need to say a-and that neither one of u-us is really _h-happy_ with it!"

The worst part is, Germany knows that Italy is completely, undeniably right about it; it's all a facade. On the outside, they look as wonderful and healthy as the rosebushes they're lying next to, but underneath it...! A horrible thought strikes him - it's entirely possible that, once they dig beneath the surface of the act, _they might not even love each other anymore_. That idea truly terrifies him more than anything else that he's ever dealt with.

"You - you know I love you, ja?" he whispers.

And with that, Italy's eyes darken. His hand curves slightly, so that his nails dig into Germany's skin, and, for a brief second, the German imagines a tingling in his palms.

"...Prove it," Italy softly says.

Germany thinks it over. A challenge? "I will," the blond promises. "But first, I think we should go inside."

"R-right." The Italian wipes his eyes on his dirty sleeve and watches Germany get up slowly, never losing eye contact once. When he tries to stand, he winces in pain. "Ow... I'm sorry, my foot is - "

He doesn't have the opportunity to finish his sentence, because Germany abruptly bends over and picks him up bridal-style. The German can't help but halfway smile when Italy automatically puts his arms around his neck and frowns at him with puffy eyes. "You carried me when I couldn't walk," he points out. "It's time I returned the favor."

That moment, it seems to him, is the moment they leave behind the illusion of paradise.

* * *

><p>In the bathtub of the house, Italy is still cleaning the dirt off of himself. Germany had finished some time before, using the downstairs work shower, and now he is waiting for Italy to call for help getting out of the tub - the Italian's foot seems to be causing him trouble from when he had fallen earlier. Patiently, the German sits on the bed, still looking himself over and trying to not talk himself out of what he's going to do -<p>

"L-Ludwig?"

His head snaps up to the doorway and to Italy, wearing a black bathrobe. "Feliciano - you're walking alright? Does it still hurt very much?"

"It's getting better." The Italian looks him over with wide eyes. "W-why are you...?"

Germany stands up. For the first time in almost five years, he is allowing his skin to be seen by someone - no long-sleeved shirts, no pants, and no shoes in the way; his black boxers are the only clothing item he has on. It makes him feel horribly exposed, but he knows why he's doing this. "You wanted me to prove that I love you," he reminds Italy steadily. "I can't think of a better way."

With large eyes and shaking hands, Italy comes and sits next to him on the bed. His hand comes to rest on Germany's left arm, directly over the blue ink; he swallows.

Germany begins there. "I was given that within five minutes of arriving in Auschwitz, in December of 1943 - it's the first ugly scar I got there. I - " he pauses to swallow a lump in his throat, " - I received it along with a pink triangle, to announce to everyone that I was a prisoner because of homosexuality. I... I did it because I love you."

He looks up from the floor then, and when he sees how torn Italy appears, he wants to die - _he's_ the one making Italy upset, and it's happening with the mention of just one of the dozens and dozens of marks on his body. How is he supposed to go on if the Italian is going to - ?

"Continue," the brunette whispers. "P-per favore."

His hand, then. "Within a few hours, I was taken to Josef Mengele - he was called the Angel of Death for the things he did to people - and he made good use of his time and ordered my fingers snapped - " And Italy _must_ have known of the incident, but even so Germany sees him trying to hold in a noise of terror with his hand. " - and I simply took the pain," he says slowly, "because I was _not_ going to be known as a coward who couldn't fight for the person he loved - "

"Because of... _me_?" Italy breathes.

Why does he sound so shocked? Does he not know? Can he not understand that he is worth it all? "Ja," the German confirms softly, "for you... A few days later, they moved on to my feet..."

It takes a full hour - an awful, long hour - to recount where all the scars came from. By the end of it, Germany is holding the Italian in his arms again; the blond's voice is consistently cracking with emotion, and Italy is openly sobbing once more.

"And - a-and - and y-you did it f-f-for me! Oh, _Dio_!" he cries. "I-it was m-my fault, t-t-too!"

"No it wasn't," Germany insists. "None of it was your fault - "

"S-si! Y-yes it was! I - I - I was th-the one who s-said o-over the phone th-that - that - ah - a-and - and th-that's w-why you w-were - "

"They would have found another charge!" he insists again, holding onto Italy a little tighter. "The government was getting tired of me! Hitler was furious that I sometimes hesitated to follow his orders - he was hunting for a reason to depose me anyway!"

Slowly, Italy's breathing deepens, although he's still shaking from his sobs. "L-Ludwig?"

"Ja?"

"You..." He swallows, audibly. "Y-you forgot one th-thing they d-did to you."

Germany closes his eyes and rests his head on Italy's shoulder. There were to be no secrets anymore. "How did you know?"

"A-Austria f-found scar t-tissue when he w-was looking you o-over," Italy whispers. He pauses, waits, and gasps when there is no denial. "Oh God, _th-they did_!"

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe, Germany. "With a - a pipe, yes."

And Italy looks so broken by the confirmation that Germany can't help but draw him closer and wish and pray that somehow, things get better than this.

"I w-wish I could h-have taken it i-instead!" Italy moans.

The blond stiffens. "_Never!_ I wouldn't have ever, ever let you do that for me - "

"Ve! - _I would rather break m-myself than other people!_" he wails. He chokes on his own tears for a moment as Germany stares at him with widening eyes. "I - I would," he repeats. "I - I know I w-would - "

"...How?"

Germany can't believe he just asked that question; neither can Italy, apparently. "S-scusi?"

"How did it happen?" he elaborates, his voice cracking. "I can see how you would be worth my ordeals, but - but not how I would be worth yours."

He's still crying; fresh tears are running down his cheeks. "It was H-Hitler, a-and if you'd h-heard what he said a-about you... I shot him. B-but I..."

"...Ja?..."

"B-but before that," he whispers, seeming terrified to say it out loud, "before that - _I crucified him_."

* * *

><p>He's not worth it. Germany is absolutely, completely, and without a doubt <em>not worth<em> so much suffering. "I-I'm not!" he shakily insists when Italy is done with his side of the truth.

"Si! You are!"

"Nein! I did nothing for you but put you through hell for decades and decades - "

"_No!_"

" - and now I'm just a worthless nation who has nightmares every single damn time he closes his eyes!"

"How c-can you think that way?"

"It's the truth!"

"Ludwig, I - I don't regret it at all!"

Their arguing pauses. That means that - that Italy would do it over again? "...You... don't regret it," he repeats coldly.

"I - no! I don't! I've wondered a-and wondered if it was the r-right thing to do, a-and I still suffer all the time and see his eyes when h-he was dying, but I-I could n-never, e-ever regret d-doing it _for you_!"

Germany's breath is caught in his throat. "I don't understand."

Italy shakily exhales. "Do y-you... do you remember wh-when you taught me h-how to use a gun? A-and you asked m-me i-if I could use it to save my o-own life - r-remember what I said?"

"You..." He swallows. "You said you couldn't do it."

"A-and for Romano's life?"

"You said no - "

"And f-for you?"

His eyes widen as he remembers. "Yes. You said you could."

"So - so w-what about you? Would y-you kill someone for yourself?"

"Maybe - "

"For - for Prussia?"

There's an unexpected pang in his chest at the mention of his brother. "Maybe," he admits.

"A-and... for me?" he finishes weakly.

"..._I don't know._"

That's the moment when Germany realizes he won't ever understand.

For him, it's not a moment of sorrow or fear, but rather one of self-disappointment - he's supposed to feel what Italy feels about it, but he can't. In his mind, murder is still murder, no matter the reason behind it, and that conclusion sounds so stupid in his head and so unlike what he wants to believe that he doesn't know how to handle it.

He sighs, irritably, and Italy seems to sense that there's some sort of internal struggle within the German.

"I'm sorry," the nation whispers, resting his head on Germany's chest.

* * *

><p>It takes nearly three full days for the two of them to have another real conversation.<p>

Italy, the German notes, spends his time wandering around outside, in and out of the garden in something of a daze. Perhaps he's looking for the gun he dropped - if he is, he won't find it. Germany had gone out early in the morning and buried both the Beretta and the Walther right next to the rosebushes. The ground is wet enough that it doesn't look as though any of the soil has been disturbed; the illusion of paradise remains there.

He knows Italy is wandering because he has almost completely shut himself in the spare bedroom alone for those days and spent the hours staring out the window. There isn't much to see. The days are cloudy, and the Italian isn't acting like his usual, sunny self to brighten things up.

That third night, they cross paths in the kitchen on accident; Germany walks in on Italy pouring himself a glass of deep red wine. Both of them freeze.

"You're... you're wearing sleeves again," Italy slowly states.

Germany glances at himself and represses a sigh. "It was cool today," he excuses.

The Italian says nothing to that subject but, when Germany nearly turns to leave, he blurts out, "Please! - do... do you hate me for what I did?"

...

"No," he whispers.

The brunet opens his mouth, then closes it to bite his lip; he exhales loudly through his nose, like he's trying to repress a shudder. When Germany turns back, he suddenly looks at the wine and decides that alcohol would probably do his system some good. He goes to get a glass of his own, but Italy suddenly speaks up and says, "Y-you can just share with me. I won't drink all of this."

"...Very well."

They sit down together, sharing the one bottle and cup. Germany takes the first sip and asks, "Do you still love me for not... understanding?"

"I..." Italy takes his own mouthful and swallows very carefully. "Si. I wouldn't fully expect you to understand, really."

He frowns. "Why the hell not?"

Pursing his lips, the Italian responds honestly, "Because I don't understand it either, sometimes. It's just - it's impossible to completely acknowledge because, i-if I did, I wouldn't be able to face the world."

They pause, staring not at each other but at the wine, as though it will somehow give them answers and solutions for fixing this riff between them.

"Why are you still here?" Germany asks suddenly.

Next to him, those brown eyes reflect confusion. "Ve?"

"I've got nothing to give you anymore," he specifies, unconsciously curling and uncurling his hand into a fist. "We've been rotting here in this house for almost five years, and what have we got to show for it?"

"I'm still here," Italy begins, "because I love you - "

"Is there something wrong with me?"

"..._What_?"

"Italians are supposed to be physical," he says irritably, suddenly jerking the glass towards him and taking a full mouth of wine. He sits the almost-empty glass on the table and folds his arms; staring at the table with a dark brow, he continues. "You used to hug and kiss me so much that the habitual part of my conscience had half a mind to push you away, but it seems like you hardly _bother_ anymore - "

"What!"

" - and never once have you asked me to have sex or anything!" Germany points out. "I know you can be awfully naive at times, but I highly doubt that the thought hasn't ever crossed your mind! There's something wrong with me, and I can tell you believe it from the way we've been - "

He never finishes that sentence because, with a sudden sob of air, the glass has been slammed down onto the table; Germany snaps out of his stupor and can hardly lift his eyes up beyond the cracked facade between them. He's too afraid to see what Italy's brown eyes hold.

"Th-there is," says a shaking voice, "n-not a _single th-thing_ wrong w-with you. You - you're th-the - " He has to pause to swallow something. " - you're th-the _most perfect_ a-and the _least s-selfish_ person I kn-know!"

And when Italy removes his shaking left hand from the broken wine glass, it's hard to tell if the stain left behind is red wine or blood. Germany's eyes widen slightly with concern. "Let me see your fingers."

"L-Ludwig I - "

"Please," he whispers.

The Italian pauses for a moment; slowly, then, he extends his hand. It_ is_ blood tainting the pure crystal. Italy's fourth finger has a few perfect drops forming from a small cut on the underside. "I-I'm fine," he insists. "It's... it's j-just a scratch!"

Even so, Germany carefully cradles the hand in his own. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "That was my fault."

"N-no, it wasn't. I - I just, u-um..." Germany looks up imploringly, and Italy turns away as he continues, "I knew a l-little a-about the things th-they did t-to you, a-and I didn't want t-to... to..."

The first emotion he feels is anger: Italy had known. But as soon as he realizes the intent of the statement, Germany completely forgets every reason he should feel upset over such a thing. Didn't knowing mean that Italy had been holding back, just like him? Germany knows about his own faults, of course - how he pulled back when the kisses became too deep, how he forced his hands to remain immobile at times, how he had to stop and make excuses to leave the room when he felt things were coming close to disaster - but he'd been completely oblivious that Italy had been doing the same until this point in time.

"You could have control," Italy whispers. "I - I wouldn't mind."

"I don't want to hurt you," he says, not even blinking when Italy's brimming eyes turn back his way. "Never."

"You wouldn't," he replies. "Not even if you tried."

Germany is very careful to make sure he doesn't react to that; instead, he focuses his attention on the finger. "I don't believe there are any glass splinters," he diagnoses calmly. "It should heal just fine."

"R-really? Ve, it kinda hurts."

He can't help but smile just a little as he brings the finger to his lips; he hears Italy inhale a little with surprise when he kisses the tip of it. Most people, he supposes, would be disgusted by the taste of the blood, but there's so little of it that he can barely even tell there was any in the first place.

"Is it better now?" he asks softly.

...

And somehow, by the time his brain his brain catches up with the Italian's actions, he's pushed back into the kitchen chair all the way and has Italy wrapped entirely around the front of his body. One of them whines - he thinks it's Italy but isn't sure - and he subconsciously presses in harder. Their hands are wandering, but their mouths never stray.

Damn his brain! As soon as he realizes what is on the verge of happening, he grasps Italy's wrists and forces them apart. "I - I can't," he protests.

Italy looks at him in earnest. "Why not anymore?"

"I," he says, "would rather kill myself than take a chance and hurt you."

"Ve! - I said that you couldn't ever hurt me!"

"You don't know that!" Germany insists.

"I do!" Italy insists right back. "You proved you would never hurt me by sending me away during the war when I made my stupid mistake over the phone!" he cracks. "R-remember?"

"That was different," he tries to say.

"...Ludwig," the brunet pleads. "Please. _Please_. We - we both need it."

That shouldn't be the case, his logical side protests. He's read God-knows how many books on the subject, and not a one of them would describe that as a healthy solution -

And then he damns the books, too. He looks into Italy's eyes again, and for just a second - just a measly second! - he sees what Italy must have seen that night back in 1945: eyes full of life, with a chance finding hope and fulfilling dreams. If anything, the image is even stronger for him because, instead of looking into the eyes of a stranger, he's staring into the soul of the man he loves.

He swallows.

"If I hurt you," he says shakily, never once looking away, "if I hurt you, then you _have_ to let me know. We'll stop, because maybe you could take the pain, but _I can't let you_. Feliciano, do you understand?"

In that instance, he wonders what Italy sees in his own eyes. Are they scared - or are they full of anticipation?

"...Si. _Ja_," the Italian replies.

They say no more as the kitchen is abandoned.

* * *

><p>It's night, and the bedroom is very nearly pitch black. From just outside the door where he walks, he is surprised to hear, "Ludwig? W-where are you?"<p>

"Shh. I'm right here."

He hears the bed creak. "I can't see you!"

Walking back and lying down with the mattress again, he manages to find and grasp Italy's hand. "Here."

"O-oh, okay - _what!_ - what're you doing?" he squeaks.

Germany's other hand has found and is beginning to gently rub the Italian's - _his_ Italian's - stomach, with a dampened cloth. "Cleaning up," he murmurs. In the complete darkness, he gently leans forward and presses his mouth to Italy's forehead.

"...Thank you," he adds, his cheeks only heating slightly.

"Oh - cleaning - _oh_." A pause. "You're so good to me. Y-you're s-so - "

A surge of horror causes his eyes to widen and a lull in the rhythm of his motions. "I hurt you, didn't I!" he insists.

"Wh-what? N-no!"

"You're crying! Feliciano, what did I - "

"N-no you didn't hurt me!" he sobs, not even trying to hide it. He abruptly causes Germany to drop the cloth when he suddenly presses his face to Germany's shoulder and wraps his arms around the blond's neck. "I-I just r-realized that I a-always thought that we w-would never make love b-because all the th-things w-we were hiding k-kept were stopping us and - and I realized that w-we won't ever have to h-hide again a-and - and - "

"It's alright - calm down - " Germany tries.

" - and _I love you so much_!"

His throat closes. Breathe. "I - I love you, too."

Italy lets out a half sob and a half laugh at that. "A-are you crying too?"

To laugh or cry harder? "Damn it all, F-Feliciano! - "

He is about to wipe his own eyes when a pair of lips brushing his upper cheek. "L-let me take care o-of those, per favore Ludwig?" A pause. "You kissed m-my tears away, si?"

He sinks into the mattress, gently holding Italy close as they wait out the darkness.

* * *

><p>The sun must have finally come out, because even from behind his eyelids he can tell there's light shining in through the bedroom window.<p>

"Ludwig?"

"Mmm. Feliciano."

A bell-like laugh. "I - sorry, it's just - I've been waking up before you lately! Ve, you aren't sick, are you?"

He softly opens one eye, slightly amused and still puffy in the eyes and yet feeling rather unnaturally _giddy_ from the night before. "In truth? I've never felt better in my life." As he opens his other eye, he becomes aware again that he's completely exposed to Italy's gaze; his conservative nature kicks in instantly, and he begins to pull the sheets back up around him.

"No! - don't." Italy's hands reach out and stop him. "W-we can't go back to hiding," he explains quickly, his own pink eyes never straying from Germany's face.

Slowly, the blond drops the white linen, leaving all the scars exposed. He sighs, giving the situation a bit of finality. "Right," he agrees.

Gently, he gathers Italy's head in his hands and brings him closer for a kiss; when they break apart some time later, the Italian hums in contentment and lowers himself onto Germany's chest. For a few moments, they lie there in silence, until Germany cautiously asks, "How are you... feeling?"

"I'm - I'm just a little sore," Italy admits, sounding slightly nervous. "And, um - oh, please don't get mad for this, but I think... um... I found just a little blood on the sheets - "

"_Blood?_"

"Just a little!" he insists a bit shrilly.

Germany thinks it over, his face etched in a frown. "I didn't want to hurt you," he says. "God _damn_ it."

Italy inhales and exhales deeply. "I know - and you didn't. Maybe... maybe you still think that what they did to you and what _we_ did are similar, but - look at me." Germany does, and Italy continues without a hitch, "You are nothing like them. Everything physical will heal - and if you could see yourself the way I see you, you would know without a _single doubt_ that nothing you did last night caused me any sort of measurable pain."

...

"I," Germany slowly says, "have no idea what I did to deserve you."

"I-is that your way of saying that... maybe you love me?"

"Maybe? Only _maybe_?" It's said with an incredulous tone of voice. He presses their foreheads together and softly confesses, "Ich habe immer dich geliebt."

Italy can't help but grin at that. "I hope this lasts forever," he says back.

Germany frowns. "It won't - but I believe we should take advantage of it while it lasts."

"Ve?"

"Would you spend the rest of the day here with me?"

"Oh, I don't know..." Italy says teasingly. "It's finally sunny outside now - maybe I want to appreciate the weather - "

"Or, even better. Would you spend the rest of your life with me?"

The playfulness disappears and is instead replaced by surprise. An instant later, though, a smile slowly creeps onto his face. "Well... si! - I'll stay for thousands and thousands of years if you ask me to!"

It doesn't matter that, to a degree, Germany still has no idea how to deal with the truth of what either of them have done and been through - because now, since he finally has asked the question that's been on his mind for so long, they really _do_ have thousands upon thousands of years to realize if it was worth it all or a waste of love.

(He's pretty confident of his answer already, actually.)

"But... ve, I have one condition," Italy adds.

Germany raises a bemused eyebrow. "A condition?"

He giggles, somewhat nervously. "Can we... um... you know... make love some more? Well - um - maybe not right now! Because I do feel a little sore, and I don't think you want to accidentally make it worse - "

A kiss to his forehead cuts him off. "I can't believe you felt that you had to _ask_."

And no response to that is needed - their fingers and limbs wrap around one another, and Italy softly sets his head above Germany's heart. It makes the blond a little self-conscious of how his chest is rising and falling, but so long as the brunet makes no effort to change positions, he feels just as content as he has ever been.

"Did you dream last night?" Italy asks softly, after a while in the silence. "Did you have any scary ones, like you usually do?"

"I..." He pauses and lets their entangled arms hold on a little tighter. "Yes, I dreamed... but it wasn't a nightmare. It was nice."

Italy looks up from Germany's chest, surprised. "Ve - not a nightmare?" he smiles. "What happened in it?"

How to explain it?... It had been something he'd dreamed several times - Hungary had been reading him a story as a small boy. He'd been so excited, he remembered, to hear the story of Sir Lancelot and the Fair Maid of Astolat, but Hungary had only made it through the prelude - a shorter tale of how Lancelot saved the fair Guinevere from certain death - before Austria appeared and forced the nation to go and do her chores. Normally it wasn't a detail that stuck out to him, but now he distinctly remembers Hungary's saddened face turning to him and saying, "We didn't even get to the real story! I'm sorry!"

But, for the first time since he'd had that dream, his child self hadn't been saddened by this - instead, for once, he'd felt glad that there was more to the book that he hadn't heard yet. Even as he glanced at the cover and realized that Arthur was to die, he wasn't let down by the revelation. Instead of the disappointment that comes with not knowing the details of the plot, he felt - in that moment - anticipation for what lay ahead. And the nation he suddenly wondered about then (and the nation he still sometimes wonders about now) was -

"What is it?" Italy teases. "Was it a dream about last night? Because, ve, that would be a _really_ nice thing to dream of, I think - "

"Nein." Germany leans down and stops his chatter with a kiss. Shaking his head a little to himself, he reaches a hand up and strokes Italy's hair.

"I dreamed," he says slowly, with a rare smile extending to his eyes, "that our story was just beginning."


End file.
